


Burned Ink

by NicheTales



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Arson, Blood Play, Developing IwaOi, Discussions of Past Character Death (Family Member), Drug Use, Established IwaiSemi, Grief and Loss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Mild Power Play, Oral Sex, Poly V Dynamic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Transmasc Oikawa, Vaginal Sex, Werewolf AU, werewolf iwaizumi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicheTales/pseuds/NicheTales
Summary: Cigarette smoke and tattoo ink are Oikawa's newest obsessions.It may or may not have to do with the tattooist.No matter how much he gets, it never feels like enough, but he will do whatever it takes to fill the hole within him, even if it means letting go of something he holds precious.If he can bring himself to let go.-A story about overcoming loss and grief, and letting go of the past-
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Semi Eita, Side KyouHaba - Relationship, Very brief scene of OiSuga, side matsuhana
Kudos: 34
Collections: HQ Polyam Bang





	1. Hemostasis

Oikawa walks with his head held high, gaze to the cracked linoleum where lonely men browse shelves of secondhand pornography. It's not what he's here for. He smells the dauntingly pungent smell of cigarettes and burning red phosphate, a curl of smoke that escapes through the crack between the frame and a wooden door hidden in the back. There he finds what he needs.

 _Because it has become a need, hasn't it?_

The thrumming buzz of needles against his skin is pleasant enough but even without it, he is always drawn back; always pulled into the orbit of a man who smells like the pine in the mountains he loved as a child, the density and weight of thunderclouds and ozone with a tinge of fresh linens on the clothing line in the wind _—_

He smells like _home_. Like the place Oikawa can never visit again. His home curled into a wisp of smoke and ash without the consideration of how Oikawa would feel and now he clings to a stranger, grasping desperately to every excuse he can find to lay in his chair, listen to the small occasional words he says and feel the sheltered heat of blue gloved hands on his skin. 

Thankfully, he enjoys the excuses he makes to meet this acquaintance again.

But the ink is starting to leak past the seams. There's only so much skin that he can hide behind athletic shorts and t-shirts and the few piercings raise curious brows enough. As he runs out of canvas, he runs out of excuses to see his artist again. He's heard tattoos can be addictive, but it's honestly not the tattoos he's concerned about. 

It's the hands of rough palms and gentle touch, a voice of heady smoke and broken glass gleaming under the neon light that cannot be good for Oikawa’s publicity.

But it's _so good_ for Oikawa's ability to sleep at night. 

Until it isn't. 

Until all his dreams are consumed with dark hair and a natural scowl and muscle pulled taut over tattooed skin. It always ends the same, always ends with a single word, a name _—his_ _name—_

 _Tooru_. 

The bell chimes when Oikawa pushes the door open. He almost hates it, wants to see the man at his most candid, but smiles brightly when he spins in his plasticine red stool and waves Oikawa forward. Oikawa is always his final client of the day, slinking into his studio in the back of a preloved porno shop when the light of the sun had long past and the chill of the night left goosebumps on Oikawa’s skin. 

But this time was different. For the first time in these months that Oikawa had been hungrily visiting this back room for ink, there’s a second man posted in the corner. With dark hair in a mess of untamed curls and sleeves of tattoos down his forearms that slip beneath the cover of rolled button-up sleeves, he slouches lazily against a counter crowded with bottles of colored ink. 

“Hajime, you didn't tell me your weird night client is a star athlete.” 

_Hajime._

“Confidentiality,” is the only word Iwaizumi says, and it's enough for the other man to blow raspberries with his lips and pout playfully.

Iwaizumi beckons for Oikawa to take a seat in his chair, his slender hands a mess of dried ink that catches Oikawa's attention. It always catches Oikawa's attention. 

“Ah, you're no fun sometimes. Always playing nice.”

Oikawa wants to ask if the chatterbox is going to stay through the whole session but doesn't get the chance. He only gets to open his mouth before Iwaizumi beats him to it.

“Isn't there someone waiting for you at home, Mattsun?”

“No, actually. Trying to keep him all to yourself then? How selfish.” 

“Matsukawa.” 

“Fine. See if I bring you dinner anymore.” He pats a plastic bag of takeout on the counter. “Throwing me out as soon as another pretty face walks in? I'm hurt, Iwaizumi. _Hurt._ ” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Iwaizumi bids farewell with a smile and amused roll of his eyes and runs his hand through his hair as he turns to Oikawa. “Is there something in particular you want done? You don’t usually make appointments so suddenly without talking my ear off about ideas first.” 

“Aww, Iwa-chan, did you miss talking to me? I can’t just drop in?” 

Iwaizumi waits for a real answer. They’ve known one another long enough it’s a practiced gesture. 

“I just thought I would get something you designed this time, an Iwaizumi Hajime Original,” Oikawa says dramatically with a wave of his hands, his heart racing in his chest. “So draw something Iwa-chan likes _—but—_ make sure it’s something pretty.” 

Iwaizumi hums contemplatively, gestures for Oikawa to take off his shirt. He knows the caveats, only ink where it can be covered up by his shorts and shirt when playing volleyball. Oikawa knows there’s no use, all the bare skin on his chest and back expanding across broad yet slender shoulders and toned muscle is already filled to the brim with expert swirls of colors and shapes from Iwaizumi himself. Iwaizumi must already know, but he searches his canvas for space nonetheless. 

“Where do you want it?” He asks, “We could start expanding down your hips and thighs, or down your arms, but I know you didn’t want cameras to catch it while you’re playing so...” 

“Hips then! Draw something sexy. Something that girls will like! If you even know what girls like, Iwa-chan~.” 

Iwaizumi scowls.

“You’ll have to take off your pants then, and probably your underwear too. I have a sheet or blanket you can still cover up but I’ll need the area clear so I don’t get ink and blood on your clothes.”

“Scandalous, Iwa-chan!”

“Just take your pants off, Oikawa.” 

The metal of the table chills Oikawa’s bare skin, leaving goose pimples in their wake. He’s thankful for the opaque sheet Iwaizumi offered him; not necessarily for modesty, but as a barrier between the cold metal and the bare skin of his hips. It’s not the first time Iwaizumi has seen and touched so much of Oikawa’s skin, and Oikawa isn’t shy about his body. 

Iwaizumi never speaks much as he works, the electric thrum of the tattoo gun and the faint mumbles of the television in the corner letting Oikawa’s mind wander into a trance like state. It’s almost meditative, following the lines of the needles in his skin with his mind’s eye, but Oikawa enjoys the feel of the needle too much as it drags from the outside of his hip towards the center.

He keeps that to himself, though, inhaling and exhaling in long slow breaths. 

After three hours of work, Iwaizumi draws him from his own thoughts with a hum, “What do you think? Tell me if you want any adjustments made, but your skin is pretty irritated so we may have to do it another day after you’ve healed.”

Oikawa sits up on the table and looks at the ink and blood Iwaizumi wipes clean from his skin, leaving behind tender skin. Crisp black silhouettes of a wolf amongst the forest, the sky above an array of blues, violets, and teals with speckles of gold for stars and a full moon unhindered by clouds. It followed the curves of his body beautifully, the illusion of sloping hills amongst the trees.

“I’m amazed at how fast you did all this,” Oikawa pauses for a moment, “So, Iwa-chan likes wolves?” He traces a gentle fingertip along the swollen skin of the moon and stars. A small ooze of blood and ink pools at the surface and smears along the tip of his finger. “Did you know, Iwa-chan? There must be other worlds out there.”

Iwaizumi smiles, his eyes exhausted, “Whatever you say, Oikawa. I’ll wrap it up for you. You better take good care of it.”

“I will! I will! I always do, Iwaaa-chan.” 

After paying with a generous tip, Oikawa takes a last look at Iwaizumi, the tired bags beneath his eyes, the slouch of muscular shoulders and stretch of well worn cotton across his chest and slips out the door. 

Oikawa steps out into the crisp night air at nearly two in the morning, walking past bright neon lights of clubs and bars full of lively characters. The light reflects brightly against the wet black pavement, scattered puddles gifting the reflections a rippled clarity otherwise lost. It’s a long trip home, but he prefers to walk, feeling the sore pull of the tender skin of his hips with every step he takes. He always gazes at the stars as he walks home. 

A few instances, Oikawa sees a stray dog in the alleyways. He doesn’t think anything of it, breathing in the cool summer night air. There are a lot of stray dogs in the city.

Once home, he greets Milkbread his brittany spaniel with a gentle scratch behind his ears and takes him one last walk before bed. Oikawa showers in practiced motions, keeping the bandage over the tattoo and keeping the soap and water away as he washes away the grime from the day. He knows Iwaizumi would be angry if he knew Oikawa showered immediately after coming home with new ink, but Oikawa just laughs to himself at the thought. 

He can almost hear the scolding, _you’ll get soap in the new ink, dumbass!_

He pulls the bandage away gently once dry, patting away any excess blood and ink irritated from his walk home with sterile pads. He admires the smooth bold lines and almost watercolor like galaxies for a moment, and wraps his hip in a fresh saniderm bandage with gentle medical tape. It’s better than getting blood and ink on his new bedsheets and dog fur in his new ink. 

Oikawa falls back on the bed, wincing slightly with a small _ah_ and a hiss as he pats the bandage gently, hoping the wound wouldn’t stretch and bleed again. Thank fuck he doesn’t have practice tomorrow, the pull of skin on his hips every time he moved would affect his play too much. He has a game the day after tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future Oikawa.

With a deep breath, he lays back and hears his dog circle until plopping into his bed in the corner for the night. 

Oikawa stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours. 

He looks at the clock on the bedside table. It’s been exactly twenty-four minutes since he laid down, only the faint tik tok of the clock in the other room and shift of bedsprings breaking the silence. 

If he didn’t have neighbors with such thin walls, Oikawa would scream. 

He never had this problem in high school or university. Any sleep he had lost was his own decision, but in recent months he’s found himself staring into the imaginary patterns on the ceiling way too much for his liking. He forces his eyes closed, taking deep breaths. Behind his closed eyes, he sees Iwaizumi again. 

Iwaizumi’s smile, the muscles of his forearms and biceps covered in tattoos and smears of ink, the pull of his shirt drawn tight across his chest; Oikawa takes another deep breath. He can almost _feel_ strong but slender hands on his chest, on his thighs, soft lips and hot breath and the smell of pine and cedar and earth _—_

_God, how much he wants to know what Iwa-chan tastes like._

Oikawa feels the sting and pull of fresh ink on his hip but ignores it, running his fingers gently along his chest, down his waist and following the curve to shiver at his own touch. He should have known, should have known that every time he sees Iwaizumi he ends his night this way, his own slim fingers in place of Iwaizumi’s. 

It’s lonely. He’s seen and felt Iwaizumi’s hands enough to know they’re thicker than his own, tanned into a honey dripped complexion and spotted with tattoos that blur into a mass of color and lines in Oikawa’s memory. He presses his fingers into his desire, and stifles his groan into wet cotton caught between his teeth.

It’s enough, for now. 

He wakes in the morning to Milkbread at this bedside, a pushy little wet nose and soft licks to wake him up for the morning walk. Oikawa looks at the clock at the bedside table again, only seven in the morning. Petting and scruffing Milkbread’s fur and ears, he slides his feet to the cold hardwood floor with a groan and sets to begin the day. 

Breakfast for Milkbread, and milk bread for breakfast. It’s not healthy, but Oikawa doesn’t really care. It’s his day off. Now that he’s an adult, he can eat it whenever he pleases. He munches it leisurely, watching out the sliding glass door of his porch to the small garden and trees filled with early morning songbirds. 

He’s still so tired, but slides his feet out of the slippers and into sandals, clipping Milkbread to his leash and sets out for a weary morning walk with the half eaten roll still in his mouth. He’ll eat a real breakfast when the walk is done, he assures himself. Whether or not he actually does waits to be seen though.

Loose sweatpants and a light windbreaker, Oikawa walks through the nearby park, eyeing the morning market lazily. He’s not really paying much attention, his mind foggy from lack of sleep, but as he’s dropping trash into the receptacle, he sees the man from last night. Tall with dark curls, eyebrows thicker than oatmeal and eyes looking just as tired as Oikawa’s, he’s sure it’s him. 

Their eyes meet just briefly, and Oikawa turns away to walk home without saying a word. They don’t know each other anyways. 

He arrives home, spends the day in limbo between a desire to sleep and a desire not to waste the day away, and texts his friend Yahaba to meet him after the game for coffee tomorrow. After tossing his phone on the coffee table, he takes a nap anyways. 

✧⊱ ━━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━━⊰✧

Oikawa isn’t really that invested in the game. He plays as well as always, they win the game, but there’s no weight behind it. No major players on the opposing team, nothing riding on his win or loss but the pride of the unbroken winning streak. It still feels good though, his mood high and his compliments to his teammates as light as ever. He turns to the stands with a smile and a wave, but he stops. 

At a glance, he swears he sees him again _—the man from Iwaizumi’s tattoo parlor—_ but when he looks again, all he sees is a pink haired man and a black dog missing its collar. 

When he meets Yahaba in the cafe after the game, he’s still distracted by the man, or... dog, in the stands. 

“...yeah so Kunimi is throwing a party tonight and he said you’re welcome to come if you want.” 

Oikawa turns his attention to Yahaba. 

“Oh? Well, I’ll drop by then.”

“You seem kind of distracted today. You’re not listening to me.” 

Oikawa laughs, “I always listen, Yahaba! You said there’s a party tonight. I said I’ll go. See? I’m listening.” 

Yahaba frowns, “What did I say before that?” 

“You know, I keep seeing this man everywhere. I saw him at the tattoo artist parlor the other night and now he’s just everywhere,” Oikawa quickly changes the subject, looking around the cafe and out the windows as if looking for the person. “He’s tall with dark curly hair and bushy eyebrows, and he has tattoo sleeves. I thought I saw him at the match today but when I looked again, there was just a dog.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m gonna go, I have to go check on Kyoutani.”

Yahaba gathers his things and with a wave that says _I’ll see you tonight, Oikawa_ , he’s gone before Oikawa can even respond. Oikawa sits alone in the cafe for a while, sipping his coffee absentmindedly before taking the metro home. He hasn’t been to a party in quite some time, showering thoroughly and tending to the new ink with healing ointment and gentle hands before setting out that evening. 

Oikawa isn’t surprised when he knows most of the people at the party. It is Kunimi’s place after all, his own former classmate he’s known for years. He slips past the threshold of the door and into the mass of music and lights, the smell of pot and alcohol sticking to his clothing and skin like a translucent sheet. 

The night passes by as a blur of movement and sound. Oikawa remembers seeing Kindaichi, seeing Yahaba pull Kyoutani by the hand into a separate room, and this man with such soft skin and silvery hair. He remembers laughing, looking at how his warm brown eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles and the way his eyes shine brightly in the dim lights of the upstairs bathroom when he’s on his knees slowly unzipping Oikawa’s pants. 

He’s got this cute little mole that Oikawa just loves to press the pad of his thumb into, holding his jaw and cheek. Pretty. He doesn’t need to know his name, just needs to make sure he doesn’t call someone else’s. 

Oikawa runs his fingers through the light colored hair and kisses him, spreading his legs as his pants are kicked away across the bathroom floor. This pretty boy touches him with such gentle fingers and tongue, grinds his hardening cock on Oikawa’s ankle like a filthy dog on the tile floor.

It’s a distraction. Oikawa knows that, but it feels good and this pretty boy with soft features and a glint of mischief is refreshing from Oikawa’s constant thoughts of Iwaizumi. Every sigh, every kiss of gentle lips that taste of a tropical lip balm, the tentative way he moves his fingers past the breach to press into Oikawa; he only sees the differences from Iwaizumi. He doesn’t even remember his name, just remembers how he feels, how he tastes, how he sounds when Oikawa pins his hips to the bathroom door and swallows everything he has to offer. 

“You’re too pretty,” Oikawa comments offhandedly, licking the tip of his cock. The man just laughs. Even his laugh airs like wind chimes, and Oikawa wraps his lips around his cock to turn the sound into a breathy moan. His head thumps back against the wood of the door, and his slender hands weave into Oikawa’s hair as he spills into Oikawa’s mouth, dribbling down his chin. 

They don’t exchange numbers. Oikawa slips back into his pants and drops a kiss on his lips just to press a taste of the man’s semen back into his mouth and slips back into the dwindling crowd of the party, leaving his companion to pick up his own pieces of discarded clothing. 

Oikawa walks home alone. It’s the early hours of the morning again, somewhere after midnight but before the dawn has broken. He doesn’t care enough to check the time on his phone, unlocking his flat with unsteady hands. After a quick walk with Milkbread, Oikawa stands in his kitchen, leaning against the countertop with a milk bread roll in his mouth. The microwave tells him it’s nearly three in the morning. 

“I love milk bread,” he says absentmindedly, to no one in particular. When Milkbread perks at the sound of his name he adds a bit drunkenly, “That’s why I named you Milkbread. Silly puppy.” He rubs Milkbread’s head clumsily, and breaks off a small piece as a treat with a mumble of _It’s only because I love you so much._

He makes his way to his bedroom, dropping bits of clothing as he walks. Oikawa looks at his tattoo in the mirror again. It’s still tender to the touch, only a few days old. He remembers the man in the bathroom commenting on it, telling him it was beautiful. It made Oikawa smile, just as it made him think of Iwaizumi’s hands on Oikawa’s hip, pressing the needles into his skin.

 _It is beautiful_ , he thinks in the silence of his bedroom.

He tries to sleep, he truly does, but spends an hour scrolling restlessly on his phone. Oikawa finds himself mindlessly pressing on the tattoo on his hip, feeling the outline of the wolf and trees. The sore pain sobers him up slightly. Milkbread curls up beside him on the bed, his nose nuzzled into the crook of Oikawa’s arm, and as Oikawa falls asleep, a thought drifts by. 

_I wonder if Iwa-chan likes dogs._


	2. Inflammatory

Iwaizumi isn’t really a morning person. It’s not that he struggles to wake in the morning, but that he doesn’t care to. The nest of blankets and pillows are warm and soft against his bare skin, comforting against the chill of the early morning when he had arrived home only a couple hours before. Blurry eyes see only a sea of earthen tones in the blankets, and one grey mass of fur.

He smiles, wraps a lazy arm around the wolf’s chest and drags him closer, and nuzzles his nose into dense fur. A small grumble vibrates deep in the wolf’s chest, discontented to be woken up and moved so suddenly. 

“Good morning,” Iwaizumi grumbles back. 

The wolf huffs out of his nose, but his tail thumbs against Iwaizumi’s thigh twice. Iwaizumi laughs in a voice thick with sleep, and curls in around the wolf to snooze for another couple hours, fading in and out until the near-sweltering heat from the summer afternoon passes through the open window. When he opens his eyes again, there is no wolf pressed against his chest, but a slim human figure snuggling with his face between the meat of Iwaizumi’s chest. 

Semi’s always had a habit of shifting in his sleep. 

“You were home late,” Semi mumbles. 

“I had the one client again, the one who refuses to see me during the day.”

“Weird nocturnal bastard.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t respond, just runs his hands through the gentle bedridden curls of Semi’s hair. There’s no malice behind his sharp tongue. Oikawa isn’t so bad. He can be annoying at times, but Iwaizumi has seen the passion and hard work that Oikawa carries. The last few months, he’s grown more and more fond of his strange nocturnal client. Plus, he’s tattooed enough of his body to know how well he takes care of himself. 

For a second, Iwaizumi toys with the question of whether Oikawa and Semi would get along, but dismisses the thought. Probably not. Not that it really matters, and Semi has certainly surprised him before with how well he adapts to new friends and partners. 

“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Iwaizumi assures finally, watching his lover’s reaction carefully. He’s certain that Semi reads the subtext, he always has. 

“Yeah?” Semi yawns, nuzzles into Iwaizumi’s neck before leaving a kiss in its wake. “Well, just keep me updated, I guess.” 

Semi stretches out onto his back in the nest of their bed, fair skin pulled taut over slim muscle and a smattering of freckles on his chest and shoulders. Iwaizumi traces gentle lines of smooth muscle down his chest and into the fur on his lower stomach, a little too dense to pass as completely human, but not quite a wolf, either. 

_ Beautiful. _

Semi watches quietly, muscles twitching under Iwaizumi’s hands as they tickle his sides unintentionally. He takes Iwaizumi’s hand from his stomach and moves it up to his mouth, leaving a kiss on his knuckles. It’s gentle, the breath from his nose more impactful than the touch of his lips on Iwaizumi’s skin. 

Iwaizumi treasures their comfortable silence together. It’s soothing, relaxing from the constant noise and bickering of the rest of his pack. He brushes gentle fingertips tracing along the freckles on prominent collarbones.

“He’s been coming later and later, hasn’t he?” Semi muses, drawing Iwaizumi’s attention from his chest to his eyes, “And staying later too. I don’t think you crawled into bed until nearly three.” 

Iwaizumi hums in agreement, propping himself up on one elbow to meet Semi’s gaze properly. His eyes are so delicate yet sharp, a warm mahogany rich in color and slightly dazed from napping. Faint shadows from the previous night’s eyeliner leave his eyes a little darker along the lines of his eyelashes. Iwaizumi considers offhandedly that his eyes seem to match the sheet draped lazily across the two of them. His fingers graze along Semi’s cheek, down to his shoulder and along his bicep and Iwaizumi leaves a gentle kiss on his lips. 

Soft, sweet, a wordless apology. 

The bedroom door bursts open, slamming against the wall and ripping Iwaizumi’s attention away just in time to be hit full force in the chest by a mass of curly black fur. The wolf is massive, a black lolling tongue and large paws and tail that wiggles and flails on the bed between them. 

“Ugh! Mattsun!!” Semi shouts angrily, shoving the wolf in vain. 

Just like that, the gentle quiet morning between them is destroyed. Iwaizumi yells and laughs, grabbing the wolf by the haunches and wrestling him off the bed to hit the ground. “What do you want?!” He ruffles his rough palms on the wolf’s face, stretching and squashing playfully. “We were sleeping!” 

Matsukawa laughs, a throaty growl like chuckle that says  _ No you weren’t. _

“Shut up!” The wolf wiggles free from Iwaizumi’s grasp and slips out of the open door to the bedroom, and Iwaizumi can hear the scratch of claws on hardwood floors. He chuckles and sighs. “Fine, fine. I’m getting up. I’m already on the fuckin’ floor anyways.”

He ignores the stiff crack of his knees. He really didn’t want to get up so soon, cherishing the time with his mate more than the unruly needs of his pack, but he was getting pretty hungry anyways. 

Dragging Semi out of the bed is always an event. If Iwaizumi isn’t exactly _not_ a morning person, Semi is quite vehemently not a morning person. But Iwaizumi is masterful in the art of enticing Semi out of the nest of blankets, years of practice honing this skill near daily. If it were a sport, he would have an olympic gold medal. Iwaizumi smothers him in affectionate smooches on his cheeks, his nose, forehead, neck _—_ _until_ he physically drags the man out of the mass of pillows by one arm. 

It’s a give and take. Loving but relentless. Too soft and Semi takes hours to get up, too pushy and Semi gets pissy. 

“You’re so rude,” Semi pouts, stifling a poorly hidden laugh. A sign of success in the Art of Waking Semi Eita. “What if I wanted to keep sleeping, huh? I have a show tonight.”

“Breakfast time. We have the pack meeting today,” Iwaizumi slips on boxers and a clean shirt from his drawers, glancing at the clock. “It’s already two.” 

Iwaizumi fries duck eggs in the pan, bare feet on the cool linoleum when he feels Matsukawa lean against his shoulder. Human and wolf form alike, Mattsun always towers over Iwaizumi. 

“I ran into Oikawa Tooru at the market this morning,” Matsukawa mentions with a lazy grin.

Iwaizumi shrugs his arm off his shoulder and glances at him sharply. 

“Did you know Oikawa has a dog? Really cute. I didn’t catch his name though. Pretty little spaniel. I know how much you have a soft spot for dogs. And you know, the owners of dogs.” 

“I’m not a stalker, unlike someone I know. It’s none of my business, and definitely none of yours,” Iwaizumi snaps, and mumbles under his breath something that sounded awfully similar to  _ fuckin’ paparazzi. _

Matsukawa huffs a laugh, unwavered.

Iwaizumi prickles at the déjà vu. 

He knows Matsukawa is a fan of Oikawa’s team, but something sour churns in his gut. This isn’t about volleyball. Mattsun pulled the same shit when Iwaizumi met Semi in a bar downtown years ago. Trailed him for months, started a fight between the two packs when Semi finally confronted the strange black wolf in his shadow. After some nasty surprises in the past, Mattsun has taken to snooping around anyone who might be interested in the pack. Iwaizumi is too tired to call him out on it. It hurts his heart, anyways. 

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Iwaizumi enjoys his privacy, something he doesn’t get much of as the leader of a pack. He taps a cigarette out of the pack on the counter and lites it up. It burns the back of his throat but soothes his nerves.

Iwaizumi slides the eggs out of the pan onto a cracked plate and tosses bacon in their place, focusing on the sizzling meat. 

“Meeting at seven?” Mattsun asks suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts, and Iwaizumi nods in confirmation. “Are you gonna bring snacks?”

“Bring your own snacks,” He scowls.

“But I like Hajime’s cooking,” Mattsun teases, snatching a near-raw slice of bacon straight out of the pan and sliding it in his mouth. “It needs more pepper.”

Iwaizumi shoves him with his shoulder, making him take a few steps back with a booming laugh. 

“All right, all right, I’m leaving. It’s like you don’t even love me anymore, first last night and now this. No room in that cold bitter heart of yours.” 

Iwaizumi flings a raw piece of bacon across the kitchen, narrowly missing Mattsun as he dips out of the back door into the summer heat. He can still hear him cackling out the kitchen window.  _ Fucker. _

Iwaizumi regards the audible slap as the bacon sticks to the closed door and slowly peels off to fall on the ground with tired eyes.  _ Great.  _ He's picking up the slimy raw bacon from the floor when Semi walks in, eyebrow raised high and lips curved into a crooked smile.

“Where’s Mattsun?”

“Out.”

Semi laughs, light but deep and still a little rough from sleep, “Of course.” 

He barely sits down and shoves a single fried egg into his mouth when Iwaizumi’s phone rings, and he stares at the police number flashing on the screen. He almost doesn’t pick it up, but changes his mind when he considers it may be his friend Daichi. He really should save the number on his phone.

It’s not Daichi. Well, it is, but it’s not the kind of call Iwaizumi was hoping for. Daichi sounds more exhausted than Iwaizumi does. 

“You need to come pick up your mad dog.”

Iwaizumi sighs, pinching the skin between his brows, “What did he do?” 

“Public intoxication and assault. They aren’t pressing charges.” 

Well, at least there’s that. Iwaizumi meets Semi’s eyes across the kitchen table. He knows Semi can hear every word of it, and feels it personally when Semi rolls his eyes at the mention of Kyoutani. 

“Yeah I’ll come pick him up. Thanks, Daichi.” 

“Every pack has its troublemaker,” Semi says when Iwaizumi sets the phone on the table, “And when I first met you I thought it was you.” Semi laughs dryly, “Looks are deceiving. I don’t know why you need to pick him up, he’s not a child. He’s responsible for his own shit.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t acknowledge that comment. They’ve had this conversation time and time again, and they both know it’s just empty venting. It’s not how Iwaizumi wanted to spend his day either, but packs have to take care of each other. 

It’s not like he has anyone but his pack. 

“Guess I’m going to the police station to pick up Kyoutani,” he mutters, throws one last slice of bacon in his mouth and ruffles Semi’s hair affectionately before slipping on shorts and sandals, shuffling to the door. Semi slouches in his chair at the table, watching him go.

He pushes the door open, takes one step into the overwhelming summer heat. It’s way too fucking hot, heat waves visible over the black pavement of the driveway and street. The car’s air conditioning hasn’t worked in years. He’s not looking forward to it. 

“Hey,” Semi calls, “I love you.” 

Iwaizumi flashes a grin, and takes one last look at Semi still sitting at the table before the door shuts behind him. 

Kyoutani is less than pleasant when he swings the car door open, throws himself into the passenger seat and slams the door shut behind him. He doesn’t buckle his seatbelt, but that’s hardly anything new. Iwaizumi glances at his sulking passenger occasionally while he drives. A new bruise has formed under his jaw since Iwaizumi last saw him two days ago, a split fresh in the center of his chapped lips. They drive in silence for several minutes before Kyoutani speaks up. 

“They were talkin’ shit.” 

“They’re always talkin’ shit, Kyou. You never get in fights when people talk shit about you. So who was it?” 

“Yahaba.” 

Iwaizumi furrows his brows incredulously, “You got in a fight with Yahaba?”

“Fuck no! They were talkin’ shit about Yahaba.” His cheeks flush, and he grumbles quietly, “I don’t regret it.” 

“Of course you don’t.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, digs into the side panel of his door and unearths a protein bar, throwing it into Kyoutani’s chest, “Eat something. Pack meeting is tonight.” 

Kyoutani mumbles something indiscernible and shoves the bar into his mouth with an audible  _ crunch. _ The bars weren’t supposed to be crunchy, but neither of them say a word about it. 

Iwaizumi lets him munch in silence, turning to exit the city and towards the edge of town. He just wants to go home and finish his bacon with Semi, honestly. Semi’s comment sits fresh in his mind, and he finds himself looking at his passenger again. Kyoutani is staring out the window absently, watching the buildings and trees pass in a blur, crumbs sticking to the side of his bottom lip.

_ If Kyoutani is the pack troublemaker, the pack is doing just fine. _

✧⊱ ━━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━━⊰✧

Turns out, Hanamaki brings enough pizza for the whole pack. It’s not a necessity, but feeding a pack of hungry wolves always makes the meeting pass more smoothly. He carries a stack larger than his torso and drops it into the middle of the circle of wolves, and takes his place in the circle himself next to Iwaizumi and Kyoutani. 

The pack meeting goes well, aside from one specific factor that Iwaizumi notices about ten minutes into the meeting. The seat between himself and Hanamaki is empty, Mattsun nowhere to be seen. It’s rude to leave a human in place of a wolf in the pack meeting, but Iwaizumi is not concerned about the pack politics. 

“Where is Mattsun?”

Hanamaki shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth, looks at Iwaizumi in a grin that reminds him of the exact grin Mattsun had this morning. He shrugs, but his face suggests he knows more than absolutely nothing. 

“Issei said he had something to do, so I came in his place.”

Semi loops his arm around Iwaizumi’s other side, leans in close to his ear and whispers not to worry about it, he’s sure Matsukawa is fine, but it’s not Mattsun’s safety that Iwaizumi wants to know about. It’s Iwaizumi’s own sanity. Oikawa is a client. He’s not involved in the pack, regardless of Iwaizumi’s maybe less-than-subtle affinity. At least, he had been trying to keep it subtle. 

“Did he tell you what he’s doing or where he was going?”

“Everybody has their secrets,” Hanamaki says carelessly, “Why? Is there something you’re worried about?” 

A pause. Iwaizumi considers how much he wants to say quite cautiously, mindful of the eyes of the pack. 

“No.”

If Hanamaki felt any animosity or awkwardness from Iwaizumi during their touch up appointment hours later, he never spoke a word of it. On his way home, Iwaizumi picks up another pack of cigarettes. He has a feeling he’s going to need them. 


	3. Proliferative

Nearly two weeks from their previous appointment, Oikawa swings the door open to Iwaizumi’s parlor, interrupting Iwaizumi mid-appointment. Seeing that Iwaizumi’s chair is full, Oikawa blurts out a loud apology and slams the door shut, the room silent save for the jingle of the bell on his door as it wobbles to a stop.

Iwaizumi apologizes profusely to his client for the interruption, happy it wasn’t a tattoo where the client needed to undress to any indecent degree, and they finish the hour in a silent, awkward fog. Beyond the door, he can sense Oikawa’s presence, the smell of his expensive colognes and soaps. He can hear Oikawa chatting awkwardly with the employee of the sex shoppe, pacing through the isles to pass the time. It’s distracting. He’s known Oikawa for quite awhile now, and he’s never barged into his parlor.

At nearly eleven, the client finishes up and leaves. Running rough palms down his face, Iwaizumi collects himself, tidying away trash and inks before waving Oikawa into the room from a crack in the door. 

“Iwa-chan, this tattoo is a curse!” Oikawa spouts before the door has a chance to click shut behind him.

“Excuse me?” Iwaizumi motions for him to sit, but raises his hand to motion for him to wait to speak when Oikawa opens his mouth again, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t just barge into my parlor spouting bullshit, Oikawa. You didn’t make an appointment. At least pay me if you’re going to talk crazy shit in my working hours.”

Iwaizumi draws a deep breath, resisting the growl rising from his chest and his impulse to smack Oikawa in the back of the head. He rolls his eyes behind closed eyelids. He’s still a client, after all. Even if maybe Iwaizumi wouldn’t mind something more.

_ Professionalism. _

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa’s cheeks and ears are oddly flushed as he speaks. “Ever since you gave me this ink I have seen a phantom. A ghost, Iwaizumi!” 

A… phantom? Iwaizumi resists the need to roll his eyes a second time, listening as Oikawa continues. 

“There’s a dog _ — _ ”

“I thought you said it was a ghost, Oikawa.” 

“Yes! It’s a ghost dog! It follows me. I see it everywhere, Iwa-chan. And it only started once you gave me the wolf tattoo. You cursed me!”

“I didn’t curse you,” Iwaizumi sighs. He knows exactly who this so-called ghost dog is. “It’s just a coincidence. Show me your tattoo. How is it?” 

He pulls the conversation away to something he’s comfortable talking about. Tattoo talk is easy, trying to explain that the black wolf following Oikawa around is a member of his pack? That he’s a part of a pack? What exactly is that pack in the first place? Not quite so simple. He makes a mental note to corner Matsukawa for a chat later for putting him in this position. 

Oikawa tosses his shirt to the side without hesitance, the fabric slipping off of the cool metal of the chair and onto the floor in a soft heap. He doesn’t pull his shorts off completely. The fabric slides down his hips to show the tattoo fully healed. He looks good. Oikawa always looks good, though. Pretty, slim muscle and fair skin with the faintest of tan lines here and there. A single mole on his collarbone right above where inked skin tucks behind the collar of a shirt.

Iwaizumi redirects his attention to the newest tattoo. 

He admires his own work. It brings him a sense of pride, and… a faint hint of something possessive.  _ That’s new. _ He swallows those feelings down. 

“Looks good.” 

“Of course it does. I always take good care of my tattoos, Iwa-chan.” 

An awkward silence falls between them, and Iwaizumi realizes he’s standing far too close to Oikawa to be comfortable for human standards. He takes a step back, and something flashes in Oikawa’s eyes  _ –disappointment–  _

Maybe?

“Tell me more about the wolf you keep seeing.” 

“Wolf?”

“Yeah, the dog you’ve been seeing,” Iwaizumi frowns at his own slip up. 

Oikawa seems unbothered by it, his eyes bright again, and he speaks with vivid gestures, “I first saw it after I got the tattoo but I didn’t think anything of it. I just thought it was a stray dog in the alleyways but then I kept seeing it everywhere. I even saw it after my game, in the stands. And it’s only been getting more frequent, it’s unavoidable!” He pokes and gestures at the tattoo on his hip as he speaks, as if emphasising an obvious point. 

The worst part is that Iwaizumi  _ can’t _ write this off as insane ramblings and Oikawa’s overactive imagination. Iwaizumi follows the trail of Oikawa’s hands as he talks. He’s listening, but he’s not.

Something about Oikawa smells  _ off _ but Iwaizumi can’t put his finger on it. It’s not fear, exactly. It doesn’t have the sour tang of anxiety or stress. Exhilaration perhaps. Oikawa isn’t scared of the wolf, he’s  _ excited _ about it. Iwaizumi’s eyes grow dark with realization.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi can’t believe he’s about to ask this, “Do you think… the wolf…  _ phantom…  _ you’re seeing is from space?” 

Oikawa leans in close whispering like it’s the most sensitive of secrets. His eyes practically sparkle in the dim flicker of the lightbulb, “What do you think, Iwa-chan?” 

Iwaizumi thinks that’s fucking stupid. 

But he’s not going to say that. He can’t. He shouldn’t. He’s at work. Oikawa is a client, a customer.

“That’s fucking stupid, Oikawa.”

Oikawa surges forward, closes the gap between them to smash their lips together nearly hard enough to hurt. It’s not graceful enough to be called a kiss, impulsive and desperate, a mash of lip balm slick lips and teeth. A fleeting thought passes that _ it’s really strange for Oikawa to respond to his insult like this _ but before Iwaizumi has a chance to respond, the moment is gone. Oikawa backs away in a panic with flushed cheeks and hands raised to placate a temper that isn’t there. 

“I’m so sorry, Iwa-chan, I didn’t _ — _ ” 

Iwaizumi  _ should  _ feel angry, but he doesn’t. He’s more surprised and flustered than anything else, licking his lips to chase the taste instinctively. There’s a pause, the air thick with something Iwaizumi won’t put the effort into naming and he snatches Oikawa’s hand in his own. Oikawa yelps in surprise until Iwaizumi seals his mouth away again.

He is so much softer than expected, his skin, his lips, the soft sounds he makes when Iwaizumi pinches his bottom lip between his teeth and soothes it in a smooth glide of his tongue. He draws Oikawa’s mouth open with a gasp, places a firm hand on the bare skin of Oikawa’s hip and pins him against the tattooing chair. Oikawa melts under Iwaizumi’s attention, grasping at the thin fabric of Iwaizumi’s shirt as a lifeline. 

A tad late, perhaps, Iwaizumi realizes he  _ likes  _ kissing Oikawa, but that thought flitters past his consciousness as he breaks to breathe, nipping along Oikawa’s jaw. He pulls a cool earlobe into his mouth and massages it with his tongue, drawing in the scent of Oikawa’s hair and skin. He smells  _ so good. _

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whispers, almost as if terrified that speaking too loudly would fracture the atmosphere. 

Slender hands run down Iwaizumi’s sides, along the muscles of his back and slip beneath his shirt to find purchase in bare skin. They pull Iwaizumi’s hips closer, and he ruts against Oikawa with a stifled grunt. A growl, low and guttural deep in his chest begs to be voiced but Iwaizumi busies his mouth down Oikawa’s bare chest in slow waves of movement, taking his time to leave lasting marks. A shiver crawls up his spine as Oikawa drags blunt fingernails up the smooth skin of his back.

This is probably going too fast, they should discuss what’s happening  _ before _ they do this but Iwaizumi can’t find it in him enough to stop. They’ll talk about this later, figure out what Oikawa actually wants, or if a fuck in his tattoo shop is enough for him. 

He runs his hands down Oikawa’s ass, feeling the shape of taught muscle and flesh beneath his fingertips, follows down the length of slender thighs before abruptly lifting Oikawa to sit on the tattoo chair. Oikawa’s legs spread eagerly, and Iwaizumi hums appreciatively when those slender legs frame him in. 

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi feels the shiver that pulses through Oikawa at the call of his name.  _ “Tooru.” _

Oikawa gasps as Iwaizumi growls his name again, pinning him against the cold metal. His hands rush to pull Iwaizumi’s shirt off. Iwaizumi draws back for just a moment, just long enough to toss his shirt on the chair behind him. 

It feels  _ so fucking good _ to be skin to skin, chest to chest with Oikawa. He can feel the frantic thrum of Oikawa’s heartbeat against his own, running his nose along Oikawa’s neck to nip the sensitive skin behind his ear. Iwaizumi’s arousal burns, his skin a furnace to the touch and the cool of Oikawa’s slender hands on his back, the unrelenting cold of the metal against his bare hips where his pants hang too low, brings a lucidity he can’t describe. 

“Iwa-chan, you’re so hot,” Iwaizumi huffs a laugh into the crook of Oikawa’s neck, bites down a little too roughly. “Oh,  _ fuckin’—” _

Iwaizumi snakes his fingers into the waistband of Oikawa’s pants and pauses. He doesn’t know how far Oikawa wants to take this exactly, waiting for a signal to continue, that this is a step he’s going to take. He looks into Oikawa’s eyes, darkened and wide. He expects a nod, a word or two of assurance or decline, but Oikawa grabs his hand and guides Iwaizumi to feel the heady slickness between his legs. 

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi groans, rubbing a tentative finger against the enlarged clit. “What do you want, exactly? Tell me.”

Oikawa grinds his hips against Iwaizumi’s hand, and feels the hand left at his hip pinch hard enough to bruise. It’s not a punishment exactly, but it feels like one. A punctuation to his demand. 

“Fuck me,” Oikawa snaps impatiently, “I thought that was obvious, Iwa-chan.”

“I like to hear it.” 

Oikawa flushes just briefly, so minute Iwaizumi almost doesn’t catch it.  _ It’s cute. _ But most importantly, he’s got an answer he can work with.

Iwaizumi unbuttons and sheds away Oikawa’s jeans in adept motions, loose sandals falling to the tile floor, and he basks in the sight and musk of Oikawa laid bare before him. He senses eyes watching him closely as he smooths his hands along the outsides of muscular thighs. Iwaizumi wants to take his time, to cherish and treasure, but he aches to push, to rush, to dominate, to mark the pale skin beneath his grasp as  _ his. _ He falls somewhere in between, calloused hands trembling with adrenaline but his kisses slow, deliberate. Oikawa’s skin dips so pliant under his lips, salty on his tongue and soft between his teeth. 

Every little red mark, every bruise blooming on Oikawa’s skin stirs something possessive in Iwaizumi, groaning as he licks a particularly dark mark. Oikawa’s hands find purchase in Iwaizumi’s hair, slender fingers tangled in dark locks and Iwaizumi revels in the  _ pull _ when he takes his first lick at Oikawa’s clit. 

Oikawa’s legs hook around Iwaizumi’s neck, calves resting on his shoulders to keep him close desperately. 

“Ah _—_ _ah!_ Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes as Iwaizumi flicks the tip of his tongue against his clit, laves at the slick. He pins Oikawa’s hips with a firm hand.

The taste intoxicates. Iwaizumi revels in the sounds Oikawa mumbles and whimpers, the heavy panting and desperate gasps as he curls into Iwazumi’s touch. He slides a finger beside his tongue, reaching for something he can’t quite taste and Oikawa  _ keens _ . 

Iwaizumi moans at the sound, pushes a second finger in to join the first and curls to find the nerves again, muscles flexing to press again and again and  _ again  _ until Oikawa’s hands scramble desperately to pull him away. 

“It’s _ — _ ” Oikawa hiccups, almost a desperate sob as his fingers tremble to hold Iwaizumi’s cheeks. “It’s too much.”

Iwaizumi licks his lips, chasing the taste away with his tongue, his gaze dark and heavy to meet Oikawa’s. His cock twitches, neglected in the strain of his own clothing. He trails the tip of his nose up Oikawa’s stomach and chest, breathing softly to leave shivers in its wake. 

When he kisses Oikawa, he knows he can taste himself on Iwaizumi’s lips and tongue. Oikawa mewls into the kiss, quivering hands struggling to undo the belt at Iwaizumi’s hip. 

“Let me help,” Iwaizumi mumbles, parting with a final kiss to the side of Oikawa’s mouth so he can kick his pants away. 

Without the constraints of denim, his leaking cock bounces and twitches. Unceremoniously, he drags Oikawa to the edge of the metal and nudges his cock against the welcoming wet heat. He leans in to kiss Oikawa again, slow and deliberate, rubbing the head of his dick against Oikawa’s clit, smearing saliva and slick in tantalizing circles. 

Oikawa whines against his mouth, rocking his hips down against Iwaizumi impatiently, huffing when all he receives is a smile. 

“Ready?” Iwaizumi knows he’s ready, knows he’s  _ been _ ready, but teases all the same, sliding only the head of his cock in and out. 

_ “Iwa-” _

Iwaizumi places a firm hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, holding him in place as he slams in without warning. Oikawa  _ shouts _ , scrambling to find grasp at Iwaizumi’s back. He groans as blunt fingernails dig hot red trails into his skin, sinking his teeth into the flesh at Oikawa’s nape as he builds a rhythm. 

He thrusts ceaselessly, chasing his own pleasure greedily. The scuff of the metal legs of the chair echo in the small room as it scrapes against the tile floor. It feels  _ good, _ Oikawa feels way too fucking good and Iwaizumi growls at his own selfish need. He forces himself to slow, alternating between slow plows for depth and quick ferocious thrusts. 

“Hajime,” Oikawa pleads into Iwaizumi’s ear, his breath hot. “Please  _ —please—  _ Ah!  _ Mmphf— _ ” 

Iwaizumi nips at Oikawa’s lips, relishing in the copper tinge of blood against his tongue and laces his fingers in Oikawa’s, his arm wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Oikawa is so tight, so hot and wet around his cock, he slows the thrusts of his hips to an agonizingly slow pace, feeling the smooth drag as he pushes in and out, the slick sounds of how wet Oikawa is for him, his pleasure rolling through him in waves. 

“Tooru,” he purrs, “My Tooru.”  _ My human _ , he keeps to himself. He bites and sucks a dark mark behind his ear, sharp and possessive, humming at Oikawa’s soft gasp. He can feel himself riding close to the precipice. 

He kisses Oikawa again, slow and deep to match the pace of his hips, mapping every taste and touch of Oikawa inside and out. A single tear falls from Oikawa’s eyes, and Iwaizumi licks it away, leaving a kiss in its place. 

“You’re doing so good,” he praises gently, “...feel so good, Tooru.” 

Oikawa whimpers softly, moans when Iwaizumi’s cock hits where he’s most sensitive, and Iwaizumi adjusts to hit that spot with every thrust of his hips. Each thrust of his hips brings him closer, tension building and he clings to Oikawa’s sweaty skin as a lifeline, something to ground him and keep him stable as he pants like a dog in heat. He moves to draw away, to pull out and tug himself to his climax but Oikawa’s legs box him in. He digs his teeth sharp into Oikawa’s shoulder as his orgasm washes over him. He groans, his hips stuttering to a stop, pushing as deep as he can muster and pinning Oikawa to the sweat-slicked metal. 

He catches his breath for just a moment. Oikawa runs his hands through Iwaizumi’s hair, drawing wet strands away from his forehead. It’s soothing, but stimulating, he closes his eyes for a moment to savor the tingles blunt fingernails against his scalp send down his spine. 

They rest their foreheads together, breath mixing in harsh pants. Maybe a little too sweetly, Iwaizumi nuzzles the tip of his nose against Oikawa’s. 

He slides his softening cock from its sheath, pushing three fingers in its place to press incessantly at the inner walls, his forearm and wrist straining with the pace. It’s too sudden, Oikawa gasping at the sudden assault. He rubs Oikawa’s clit with his thumb, and with every slick pass up the head, Oikawa gasps. His fingers squelch obscenely in the cum leaking down the cleft of Oikawa’s ass and onto the table, dripping to the floor below. Oikawa writhes, his mouth a silent cry at the assault, and Iwaizumi closes the gap with his mouth. He slides his tongue past Oikawa’s lips, saving the taste and feel of Oikawa’s desperate pleas. 

“Iwa _—_ _Ah!”_ He gasps a ragged breath. _“Iwa-cha—”_

He grips Iwaizumi’s shoulder and hair in white-knuckled fists.

_ “Hajime.” _

Oikawa comes with a cry, hips and thighs trembling where they loosely framed Iwaizumi’s hips, his skin littered with bruises and ink in splatters of sore, treasured galaxies. He clenches around Iwaizumi’s fingers until Oikawa whimpers and pulls his hand away from the overstimulation. 

“I’ll get some towels.” Iwaizumi mumbles after a period of silence, detaching himself from the sticky mess between them. 

“Yeah.” is all Oikawa says, his head tilted back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. As Iwaizumi wipes away the mess, there’s a small mumbled  _ thanks. _

And then they… don’t talk about it. 

Something about it feels wrong, the lack of communication as Oikawa silently redresses, ignoring Iwaizumi’s curious watch, and assures Iwaizumi he’ll text him later. Iwaizumi doesn’t want to push. There’s a mention that he has somewhere to be, he’s late to something or another, but it’s an obvious lie. An excuse. He’s out of the door as quickly as he came, leaving Iwaizumi half dressed and alone in the middle of his parlor to clean the cum off the chair and floor. 

It kind of pisses him off in an anxiety ridden,  _ did I do something wrong _ sort of way. 

As the days pass with not a single text from Oikawa, Iwaizumi becomes more and more irritated. He feels  _ used _ . But he supposes, maybe that’s what he deserves for not talking about what this would mean for the both of them beforehand. Semi doesn’t say anything, but Iwaizumi knows he’s noticed the snippy attitude, the constant checking of his phone for a message that never comes. 

Maybe it meant nothing to Oikawa then. It’s whatever. Iwaizumi will get over it. He focuses on Semi, taking comfort in the spitfire personality and gentle caresses. He told Semi the night of what happened between them, but didn’t talk about the emotions he felt since Oikawa still hasn’t messaged him back. Semi never pressed him for it. It didn’t feel like the right time, somehow. 

Though, perhaps it was just that he wasn’t through processing it for himself. 

✧⊱ ━━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━━⊰✧

Nearly a month passes with not a word nor sight of Oikawa, and Iwaizumi resigns himself to taking care of his pack to keep himself distracted from it. He takes them on moonlight hunts in the mountains, runs with them under the stars, cherishes the times he naps late into the mid afternoon with his mate. At times, Matsukawa and Hanamaki join them in cuddle piles for movie nights. Sometimes they’re even lucky enough to have Kyoutani and Yahaba’s company too.

It’s nice, even if they steal all the popcorn.

When Iwaizumi isn’t tending to his pack, he works himself to the bone, designing new works, attending workshops and conferences, setting appointments with clients. For the first time in months, Oikawa never steps foot in his parlor for his monthly to bi-weekly visits. 

Late in the fall, Iwaizumi works late, tattooing a new design onto Kyoutani’s back. He ruffles his blond hair affectionately as they leave the shop, a cigarette pressed between his lips, the door banging to a close behind them and the cool air is fresh on his skin. It feels good, calming, to be around his pack. There’s no pretending, no holding back. So many things don’t need to be said between them, they just  _ know. _

Iwaizumi drives home with the windows down, the blast of air a biting chill just a little too cold for comfort. He parks the car into the car driveway and lays back in his seat, closes his eyes for a moment just to settle into the silence. Crickets chirp in the night, a raccoon barks somewhere off in the distance.

He listens to the sounds like a natural orchestra. Just as he feels his muscles begin to ache from the shitty car seat, he drags himself out of the car. 

Iwaizumi smells blood before he even walks through the threshold of the door, a whisper of concern clutching his throat tight. Semi went for a hunt with Matsukawa and a couple other members of the pack. Nothing should have happened, but the scent of his mate’s blood is always unsettling. Anxiety settles below the surface of his skin, an itch he can’t scratch.

Maybe the walk to the bedroom gives him away, bare feet against the wood of the floor a little too brisk, a little too loud. Maybe it’s the scent of stress. Semi calls to him from the bedroom, and Iwaizumi meets Matsukawa in the doorway. The lack of concern on his face is reassuring at least. He still needs to talk to Matsukawa about his nasty habit of tailing Oikawa, but somehow he doesn’t think it’s been happening anymore. 

He shakes the thought away to focus on the small whine from the bed. 

“He’s okay, Iwaizumi.” Matsukawa reassures with a warm hand on his shoulder. “He just slipped into a thicket, some scratches and bruises, nothing that won’t be gone by morning.” 

Iwaizumi nods, and Matsuakwa pats his shoulder once before slipping through the door. He hears the front door open and close, leaving him alone with his mate. The room is dim, only a small lamp in the corner provides any light, and Iwaizumi can see a mass of half shifted human form curled onto the bed. His heart drops. 

“Eita,” Iwaizumi sees Semi perk up at his name, his ears a little too pointed to be human. “Show me where it hurts.” 

Semi rolls onto his back slowly, carefully. There isn’t a shred of clothing in sight, nothing to hide the discolored bruising and stain of dark red blood across Semi’s chest. 

“Mattsun said you fell in a thicket.” It doesn’t look like the scratches Iwaizumi would expect from branches. He rubs a soothing hand on Semi’s bicep, careful not to touch the injuries. 

“A thicket?  _ Fuck—” _ Semi winces. His voice sounds rough, the speech tinted with an inhuman accent. Too many wolf teeth crammed into a human mouth. “I slipped off a cliffside, and then yeah sure I fell in a fucking thicket. I think I landed on a rock.” 

“It looks like you landed on more than one.” Iwaizumi offers a small smile. They’ve been through a lot worse, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. “I’m going to take a shower. Did you need me to bring you anything?” 

Semi glares, his eyes sharp in the subdued lighting. He bites out a sharp  _ no  _ and Iwaizumi squeezes his arm gently before slipping into the adjoined bathroom. Wolves often snap when they’re in pain, and Semi is no exception. Honestly, Iwaizumi is no exception either, and he’s sure humans probably do the same. 

He showers quickly, washing away any leftover signs of the day to fall through the drain. He towels off absentmindedly and his reflection catches his eye in the mirror. Heavy bags settle beneath his eyes. Makes sense, he’s tired. He’s been tired for weeks. Months, probably.

Settling on the bed softly, he nuzzles at Semi’s hair. Semi grumbles something unintelligible, and Iwaizumi doesn’t think he intended whatever it was to be understood, really. 

“Can I look after you?” 

Semi shifts in the mass of sheets and pillows, rich mahogany wolf eyes shining in the light of the solitary lamp. The dark stain of blood against the sheets from Semi’s chest stares Iwaizumi in the face. “Isn’t that your job?” 

“My favorite part.” 

Semi snorts. It’s comforting to see him smile, even as an amalgamation of wolf teeth peek through human lips. He gently guides Semi to lay on his back, to bare his wounds to the open air and feels the stretch of skin as he begins to shift. It’s not a pleasant experience, but the ends justify the means. He shifts only partially, just enough to match the thump of Semi’s tail against the mattress and werewolf saliva to clean the wounds.

“Ah,  _ fuckin— _ walnut crackers, Hajime.” Semi curses, bites his lip when Iwaizumi licks the blood from his chest. Iwaizumi tries not to laugh at the words, huffing a breath through his nose. Semi grumbles more half-hearted, creative curses under his breath.

He tries to be gentle, tasting the metallic tinge of blood on his tongue and whines deep in his chest. He wants to heal, to soothe, to treat his mate gently. He doesn’t want to hurt. Slowly, Semi’s grumbles fade off, leaving only occasional near-inaudible whines in their wake. 

Semi’s half-shifted hand finds his cheek, sharp claws and soft skin. Iwaizumi leans into the palm of his hand, hums pleasantly. He watches as the wounds on Semi’s chest begin to stitch themselves closed, pride warm in his chest as he licks his way up to Semi’s collarbone. 

There are no wounds on Semi’s lips, but Iwaizumi always finds himself drawn there, no pretenses to cloud his judgement. It’s where he wants to be. And if Semi’s half snarled groan is anything to go by, it’s where Semi wants him to be too. 

He kisses him gently, a soft glide of skin that gives way to tongue and Iwaizumi relishes in the point of sharp canines against his tongue, the soft growl that purrs in Semi’s chest as they part. Iwaizumi huffs a laugh at the pout of Semi’s bottom lip, his partner’s impatience, but he prefers to take his time. 

_ “...Hajime…”  _

Iwaizumi nuzzles Semi’s jaw, and softly moves to lick at the remaining wounds on his chest. Semi shivers under the first lick, hot and slow from his sternum to flick his nipple. 

“You can go faster.” 

“Could,” Iwaizumi concedes, and drags his tongue as slow as he can bear along the smear and slice of blood and flesh across Semi’s collarbone. Clawed fingertips dig into the meat of his shoulder. “But won’t.” 

Semi gives a strangled groan, frustrated and impatient. “You’re killing me.” 

“Mn.” Iwaizumi nips the thin skin over slender collarbones, feels the twitch of Semi’s half-hard cock against his bare thigh. He nuzzles into Semi’s shoulder, scenting his mate affectionately. Semi relaxes, releasing a long exhale that tickles Iwaizumi’s skin. 

“That’s good,” Iwaizumi mumbles, “Just relax and let me take care of you, Eita.” 

An indignant hum, and Iwaizumi takes a soft earlobe between his lips and teeth, teasing it with his tongue. It’s a dance they’ve practiced time and time again, a play they’ve memorized without ever seeing the script. 

Iwaizumi laves his tongue down Semi’s chest to nip at erect pink nipples, and Semi cants his hips forward to grind his cock against Iwaizumi’s hip with a pleased pant. He drifts a hand along Semi’s waist, slides around back to feel the soft taut muscle and holds him close to Iwaizumi with his forearm, lifting his hips off the mattress. There’s a mess of smeared blood and saliva between them, cool against the night air and Iwaizumi growls as he grinds his hard cock against Semi’s. 

Semi gasps at the friction between them, at Iwaizumi’s teeth as they bite into the meat of his shoulder. He submits easily, tension melting away as he exposes his nape for Iwaizumi to nuzzle and nip until he whines high in his throat. 

Iwaizumi draws back, just enough to see the way Semi’s eyes remain sharp and piercing. Dark eyes draw him in and he ruts against bare skin as he dives in to taste him again, to feel the moan trapped in his mouth with his tongue. It’s sloppy, there’s too much teeth and Iwaizumi can feel the string of saliva that slips from Semi’s open mouth down his jaw. 

“Eita,” he parts to breathe, the feel of their strained breath between them hot against his face. He grinds his heavy cock against his mate’s, pleased at the whimper that slips from Semi’s lips. “Is that enough?” Semi snarls at the tease. “I want to fuck you.”

Semi’s legs part to wrap ankles around his hips, caging him in as if Iwaizumi would even dream about being anywhere else. Precum leaks out of Semi’s cock, smoothing the glide between them as he chases the sensations desperately. Iwaizumi drops him back onto the mattress unceremoniously, fumbling into the nightstand drawer for a well used bottle of lubricant. 

His claw pierces the foil of a condom packet, and he flings it off with a wave of his hand to land somewhere on the carpet. He doesn’t pay any mind to it until Semi cackles. 

“That was the last one.”

“...Do you care?”

“Not enough to ask Mattsun to bring any.” 

Iwaizumi hums a confirmation, ignoring the way his dick twitches and his tail wags slightly. He drops the lube on the bed beside Semi’s hip, and rummages around in the dark of the drawer a second time to fish out a toy. As much as he would love to stretch him out and pull him apart with his fingers, the claws aren’t welcome and he doesn’t want to shift back. 

Kneeling on the bed, he grasps Semi’s hips and slides him into his lap, cock red and flush. A bead of precum sits at the top, and Iwaizumi smoothes it with the pad of his thumb just to hear Semi whimper. 

Semi watches with rapt attention as Iwaizumi pours a generous amount of the lubricant on the toy, nudging the narrow tip to ease into the ring of muscle in slow, shallow back and forth motions. He can’t feel it with his fingers, can’t tell exactly when Semi is loose enough, so he distracts him with his mouth on his cock. He licks and mouths the tip messily, swallows around the head of his cock when he feels the tip of the toy begin to slide in. 

Iwaizumi really fuckin’ wishes he could see it. The dim light of the lamp on the nightstand isn’t nearly enough to see more than just shapes. He leans forward, captures Semi’s lips and nips them as he pushes the toy deeper. 

As soon as Semi’s ready, Iwaizumi pulls the toy away, tosses it somewhere probably near that dead condom he flung earlier, and slides himself into its place with a throaty groan. 

He doesn’t wait. 

Iwaizumi presses his palm flat on Semi’s lower abdomen, just above the base of his cock and angles his hips, thrusting towards Semi’s prostate. Semi sobs, broken snarl-like sounds deep in his chest at every hit, gasping when Iwaizumi pinches a nipple between his fingers, teasing and rolling it lazily. 

“Eita.” Iwaizumi feels Semi clench around his cock.

Iwaizumi slips out, grabs Semi’s hips and flips him suddenly, lifting his hips to grind his cock between his ass cheeks. Semi spreads his legs further wordlessly, bows his forehead to the mattress and bares his neck. He pushes his hips back in small nudges, whining when Iwaizumi finally mounts him again. 

He presses his body hard against Semi’s, nuzzles his neck and laves at the sensitive skin behind his ear with his tongue. Semi shivers beneath him, back arching closer to the mattress. Iwaizumi caresses his hands up his sides, rakes his claws on the way back, leaving red trails in their wake. He leaves a soft kiss on Semi’s neck, and bites down hard enough to break the skin. 

_ “Fuck.” _ Semi breathes, a whine trapped in his throat. He spreads his legs further, willing Iwaizumi to fuckin’  _ move. _

Iwaizumi wraps his hands around Semi’s forearms on the bed, and thrusts his cock in deep short bursts, never leaving the tight heat. He growls, licks the smear of blood on Semi’s neck and groans into his ear, feeling the flex of muscle as Semi fists the sheets. He tightens around Iwaizumi’s cock and gasps as Iwaizumi drives into his prostate at a punishing pace, the slap of skin growing louder at every hit as he pulls out further to push in  _ harder. _

And Semi is mumbling these broken half syllables, nothing more than a mess of consonants and vowels and desperate gasps for air. His forearms tremble against the bed, muscle straining to push back against Iwaizumi’s weight. Iwaizumi drives into him desperately, maybe too rough for all the injury Semi just endured, but Semi shuffles beneath him, whimpering to fist his own cock in his hand. Iwaizumi slaps it away. 

A grunt of protest bleeds into an open mouthed  _ keen _ as Iwaizumi grabs his dick, pumps it with every thrust of his hips and the bowstring of Semi’s tension draws tighter and tighter before he  _ breaks _ . He shouts an inhuman moan, a throaty howl of a sound that bristles Iwaizumi’s fur, and he drops the cock in his hand, following Semi’s body as he slumps against the mattress. 

“Eita,” He distantly hears his mouth form words.  _ “My Eita.” _

Semi laces their fingers together, keeping Iwaizumi close as his rhythm sputters erratically, and he thrusts to the hilt to bury himself deep as he comes. Iwaizumi rests his forehead between Semi’s shoulder blades, struggling to catch his breath. The scent of his skin is soothing, and he almost lulls into a sleep before sliding his soft cock free and laying to the side. 

Without hesitation, Semi curls into his arms, back against his chest and rumbles this sort of purr deep in his chest that soothes a tension Iwaizumi didn’t even know he was carrying. He nuzzles into Semi’s neck, licks slow, healing waves into the bite he left earlier. It’s not an apology. He knows Semi wouldn’t want one anyways. 

Semi’s breath begins to slow, a soothing, relaxing rhythm. Iwaizumi can hear his heart pounding in his chest, but it’s calming, returning to a resting rate. He lays a hand on Semi’s stomach, twirling a curl of dark tipped fur with his fingers. 

After a long period of silence, Iwaizumi speaks with a hoarse voice.

“I might talk to Oikawa about us.” Iwaizumi says softly, hearing Semi shift slightly against the sheets to shoot him a glance from the corner of his eye. 

“Seems like you’re actually interested in doing something other than checking your phone for the rest of your life,” Semi remarks, it’s blunt, matter of fact, but not scathing or harsh. “Tell me about him.” 

Iwaizumi smiles, leaves a soft kiss at Semi’s jaw. 

“He’s headstrong and passionate,” Iwaizumi begins, “but also flippant and kind of frustrating. There’s something different about him. I can’t quite place it. After we fucked in the parlor a month ago…” He trails off for a moment, then gathers his thoughts again. “He never texted me back.” 

Semi raises an eyebrow. 

“How bold.” 

Iwaizumi chuckles dryly. Bold feels like an understatement somehow. His chest feels tight, but he ignores it. His chest has felt tight for weeks now. Maybe even months. The slow rise and fall of Semi’s breathing against his chest keeps him grounded. 

“Well,” Semi continues, “Just make sure you keep me updated. And be sure he knows about this.” He gestures his hand between them. For a second, Iwaizumi thinks he means their relationship, but recognizes the second meaning in the gesture. “I don’t want any more surprises like last time. If he can’t handle the pack, he isn’t worth your time.” 

Iwaizumi lays back, stares at the ceiling through the dark cover of the night. He remembers the scent of fascination and excitement as Oikawa described the wolf following him, and his stupid space theory, even if it was an odd sort of endearing. 

“I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.” 


	4. Maturation

Silhouettes of mountain high trees blur as he races past. There is no light, nothing but the faint glow of a sliver of a moon in the sky blocked by clouds. Oikawa sprints through the darkness, following a trail he’s known for years. He smells the smoke, hears the screams as he trips on the prominent root of a tree to grind his knees into the dirt and pine needles. 

He can’t feel the pain, only the warm flow of blood from his broken skin. He knows it _should_ hurt but can’t decide if he’s thankful or not for feeling nothing at all. The crunch of leaves and shuffle of dirt are deafening in his ears, and he scrambles to his feet in a desperate sprint towards the faint orange glow in the trees. He can’t smell the smoke, but he knows it’s there, knows what it smells like.

Oikawa breaks through the last line of trees and stares into the blaze of fire, the silhouette of a man a crisp contrast against the light. He screams, runs to grab the figure. The shoulder is bony and cold under Oikawa’s sweaty palms. He feels like he’s going to throw up, dizzy and nauseous and the man turns to look at Oikawa over his shoulder, dissolving into nothing. 

It’s always the same nightmare. Oikawa wakes up at the same time as always. He wipes away the sweat that pastes his hair to his forehead like always. He stands on shaky legs and throws himself into the shower... like always. 

As he towels off from the shower, his phone buzzes against the nightstand. He unplugs the charger and throws the cord on the ground. It’s Iwaizumi. Oikawa scrolls mindlessly through the string of one-sided conversation texts Iwaizumi has sent for the weeks after he fucked him in the tattoo parlor. Oikawa hasn’t seen the wolf phantom since. It seems like more than just a coincidence. 

He scrolls back down to the newest message. It’s not polite, and it’s not a request. It’s a single line that says _I’m coming to pick you up._

Alright. Oikawa scoffs a laugh. He contemplates if he wants to text back or not, but after avoiding him for months, he doesn’t really want to break that streak. It’s definitely _not_ because he feels awkward and ashamed for being a fucking coward. His stomach stirs with acidic nausea. He drops his phone on the bed.

Oikawa dresses quickly, skips breakfast to ensure the dog is walked properly, and plops on the couch to scroll his phone until Iwaizumi shows up. He’s never been to Oikawa’s flat, but somehow Oikawa just knows that Iwaizumi has the address and knows where to go. He wonders idly what took him so long. He doesn’t really want to talk to Iwaizumi, but he’s chewed on his own leg for months and he’s starting to think he’s not going to be able to chew his way out of this guilty shackle. 

Anxiety churns in his gut and suffocates his chest. He doesn’t know what he’ll say if Iwaizumi asks him why he hasn’t answered for so long, why he ran away and never came back. Oikawa intended to come back… He just never quite made it there. 

The knock on the door pounds sharply, only twice. Short and concise, maybe a little temperamental. Very Iwaizumi. Oikawa stares at the door for a moment before swinging it open. As expected, Iwaizumi stares up at him, donned in a beat up leather jacket and surprisingly nice slacks. Oikawa forgot how much taller than Iwaizumi he is. It’s not really that much, but he feels like a skyscraper anyways. 

“Let’s go.” Iwaizumi gestures with his head for Oikawa to follow. He looks tired, sounds tired. No more tired than Oikawa is, though. 

Oikawa doesn’t answer. He’s always had a hard time talking when he’s upset, usually until he explodes. They sit into Iwaizumi’s car, the smell of cigarette smoke and something distinctly _Iwaizumi_ that settles into Oikawa’s clothes. He doesn’t say anything, kicking the car into drive. The longer they sit in silence, the more Oikawa begins to fidget, his legs and hands restless.

He can’t look at Iwaizumi, just staring out the window at nothing in particular.

But every shift of movement, every stretch of fabric or slide of Iwaizumi’s hands on the leather steering wheel of the car draws Oikawa’s attention. 

Finally, someone breaks the silence.

“You look exhausted, Oikawa.” 

Oikawa scoffs a dry laugh. He can’t refute that, and won’t try to. 

“Iwaizumi doesn’t look much better,” That’s not exactly true. Iwaizumi always looks better somehow, but that’s probably just a personal bias. Iwaizumi frowns just slightly, and glances at Oikawa briefly. “You should watch the road while you drive; don’t you know it’s not safe to look away?” 

Iwaizumi gives him a hard side eye and quirks an eyebrow. Oikawa can’t seem to keep his mouth shut now that it’s open.

“It only takes a second for something to go wrong on the road,” He blabbers. “And I don’t know about Iwaizumi, but I have a game coming up and I can’t afford to miss it. I have training in the morning, I can’t afford to be distracted and if I get injured, I’ll never forgive you.” Iwaizumi manages to squeeze in a solitary _pfft._ “Do you hot box in here? The smell of smoke is so strong. I’m going to open the window—”

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi interrupts. 

“What? Does your window not—”

_“Oikawa.”_

Oikawa clamps his mouth shut, hand freezing over the crank to roll the window down. He expects Iwaizumi to say something more than just his name, but nothing comes. They settle into a heavy silence, and he turns his attention back to the window. He tries not to pout, feeling like a scolded child. They’ve left the city center already, more and more greenery squeezing between every human structure. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“Just for a walk. Clear your head,” Iwaizumi replies. 

The further into the mountains they drive, the more Oikawa fills with a restless dread.

“Have you seen that… dog ghost… recently?” 

Oikawa stares at Iwaizumi, but he keeps his gaze forward on the twisting mountain roads, his lips in a contemplative frown. Safe driving, but Oikawa desperately wants to know what he’s thinking. He chews his words carefully.

“No. I haven’t seen it in months, Iwaizumi.” 

Iwaizumi's eyebrow twitches at his full name and he hums, more a confirmation that he heard Oikawa speak than anything else. Silence settles between them, only the drawl of the engine and white noise of the wind past the windows to keep them company. 

The higher into the mountains they drive, the more anxious and unsettled Oikawa becomes. It burns his throat tight and acidic, especially on such an empty stomach, and he lies back in the seat with his eyes closed. If he doesn’t look out the window, he can pretend he doesn’t know this forest and the memories that lay within it. 

He focuses on the rhythm of his breathing, the stretch of the fabric as his chest expands. It helps, a little. Soothes away the ache until it’s nothing but background noise. He can maintain control. 

A warm hand on his leg jostles him awake.

“You dozed off.” 

_Obviously._

“Sorry,” He mumbles, his tongue heavy. He’s thankful he didn’t fall back into the old nightmare at least. 

The driver door swings open, and Iwaizumi steps out, slamming it shut behind him. It’s too loud, Oikawa flinches, but it’s better than the silence of Oikawa’s thoughts in this forest. Oikawa hadn’t even realized they had stopped driving. He’s about to grasp the car door and push it open when it slips out of his grasp. He doesn’t take the hand extended to him, doesn’t really feel he deserves it.

Iwaizumi gives him a look, but waits for him to clamber out of the car on sleep-stiff legs on his own. 

“C’mon.” 

Iwaizumi leads him through too-familiar mountain paths, winding trails that weave through trees and foliage. Oikawa didn’t wear hiking shoes, the straps of his sandals cutting blisters into his feet. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. If he knew Iwaizumi was kidnapping him to drag him into this forest he wouldn’t have answered the door and he definitely wouldn’t be here staring at the stretch of Iwaizumi’s ass in those slacks as he steps over a fallen tree.

_Who wears slacks on a hike anyways?_

He tears his gaze away, his eyes settling on the very spot where his knees bleed into the forest floor only hours ago. The dirt and pine needles lay unburdened by the weight of his nightmares, a sign that slaps him in the face. 

“The forests always help me clear my mind,” Iwaizumi speaks suddenly.

Oikawa cannot say the same for himself. 

“Feels good under my paws.”

“Paws?”

Iwaizumi hesitates, only for a fraction of a second and if Oikawa wasn’t watching his back attentively he would have missed it entirely. 

“Yeah.” 

Oikawa doesn’t ask any further. He wants to, he _desperately_ wants to, but after ignoring him for months, he can’t bring his lips to form the question. Some part of him guessed that the wolf he saw and Iwaizumi were connected. Maybe if Oikawa wasn’t feeling so hollow and irritable, he would have had the energy to be surprised about it. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it, though. _Paws._ It sounds kind of dumb, juevenile. Like a cheap werewolf novella he’d find in the young adult section of a thrift store. The word pops up again and again every time his thoughts drift. With a quiet huff, Oikawa muses that he always knew there was something more than what the human society could see. The little mental victory distracts him from the forest, even if only for a few precious moments. 

The deeper into the forest they wander, the more irate and anxious Oikawa becomes. Every glance Iwaizumi passes back to him, his eyebrows furrow deeper, dark eyes sharp and complicated. Iwaizumi surely noticed something is off with Oikawa, but he doesn’t mention it. Just like he hasn’t asked why Oikawa ghosted him for months. 

The guilt makes him sick. This forest makes him sick. Oikawa breathes heavier than necessary, the wheeze of his own desperate breath deafening to his ears and the longer it drags on the more angry he becomes. _Why can’t Iwaizumi hear him? Why can’t he breathe? Why does the stupid fucking woods feel so silent under his feet and why can’t he—_

_Why can’t he…?_

_Why?_

With the scent of wet ash and new growth at the horizon, Oikawa’s steps falter to a stop. His thoughts swim circles around him, too much and too little, incomprehensible but unignorable. He leans against the trunk of a tree, a single palm the pinnacle of his balance and inhales a ragged, anxious breath. He can’t remember the last time his chest has felt this tight. At least in his nightmares, he can’t feel the pain of an anxiety attack.

“Oikawa?” Iwaizumi’s voice cuts through the growing haze, but it’s not enough to pull him out of the darkening tunnels, “Oikawa, what happened?” 

A firm hand grasps his shoulder and calloused thumb tips his chin to meet Iwaizumi’s concerned gaze. Oikawa slaps the hand away from his face and knocks it away with a stifled, breathless grunt. 

“Take me back home,” he snaps, too quietly, too weak to carry much of a bite, but Iwaizumi seems to hear it all the same by the sound of his huff. 

Without a clear response, Oikawa turns to walk back to the car himself. His vision still won’t clear, his steps unsteady. He stumbles over a stick in the path and curses, ignores the sting of it slapping the back of his calf like a whip. A pause, another pathetic stutter in his step, and the strong hand on his shoulder comes back. 

“Oikawa!” 

Oikawa tears his shoulder away. Iwaizumi curses something fowl under his breath and Oikawa keeps walking, back to the car, back to where his head can clear and he can get away from this forest. 

But Iwaizumi is stubborn. 

“Tooru,” Oikawa can’t break from Iwaizumi’s grasp this time. “Look at me. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

A calloused thumb wipes moisture from the crest of Oikawa’s eye. Oikawa flinches, but the touch is gentle. 

Iwaizumi forces Oikawa to look at him again, dark eyes intense and vivid, lively. _Grounding._ Sword-straight eyebrows pinch and furrow in a weird mix between anger and concern and Oikawa stares at the forest floor. The back of his calf stings, a sharp wet pain. Maybe he’s bleeding, Oikawa doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t slap the hand away a second time. Under Iwaizumi’s coaxing, he takes a deep breath, and then another. Clenching his fists does little to hide the tremble of his hands. As he closes his eyes, all he can see is a burning glow in the dark of a lost horizon, smells the smoke and ash, and hears only the same cry from his nightmares. 

Gentle hands run blunt fingernails up and down his arms, a white noise of a sensation, soothing, measured. They’re sitting on the moist earth and pine of the forest floor, an action he doesn’t remember. The barbed wire around his chest and through his throat begins to loosen bit by bit, and Oikawa swallows away blood that isn’t there. 

Iwaizumi doesn’t speak, but Oikawa feels him watching every movement with rapt attention. He tries not to focus on it, tries instead to focus on how the pine needles in the earth are sharp against the skin of his legs and backside through the fabric of his clothing, how the wind whistles through the trees, alive and chilled with the air of the late morning. 

Slowly, he winds down. When he does, Iwaizumi is there, just as Oikawa expects him to be. 

“It’s—” Oikawa clears his throat to disguise the way it cracks, “We shouldn’t be here.” Iwaizumi’s eyebrow twitches silently, and Oikawa clarifies, _“I_ shouldn’t be here.” 

“...Why?” 

“I haven’t even said why I didn’t message you back for weeks and now you just want me to—” Oikawa runs his hands through his hair, aggrieved. Tears brim at the corners of his eyes and he wipes them away with his sleeve. “Fine. Whatever Iwa-chan wants. I used to live here. Now I don’t. It burned down. _Someone_ burned it down. I saw him, but the police didn’t listen and I lost my mother because they weren’t fast enough and they wouldn’t even _look.”_

Oikawa avoids Iwaizumi’s eyes, fiddling with the pine needles in the dirt with his fingertips until he pricks hard enough to draw a speck of blood to the surface of his skin. The droplet pools at the pad of his finger and drips onto the forest floor. 

“They gave up on her. They gave up on me. Police closed the case and said it was faulty wiring.”

Iwaizumi sighs, “Stop jabbing your fingers with that.” He pulls the pine needle from Oikawa’s hands and flicks it away. Oikawa watches the needle fling into the distance so he doesn’t have to look at Iwaizumi sitting so close. “Tooru, when’s the last time you came here?” 

“Nine years ago,” Oikawa mumbles, with an internal addendum of _at least when I was conscious._

“A lot changes in nine years,” Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck. “I wish you would have said something before I drove all the way here,” He pinches Oikawa’s thigh for a yelp. “...Why didn’t you answer me?” 

“I answered you! I told you why I hate it here!” 

Iwaizumi jabs him in his side. 

“Iwa-chan! So rude,” Oikawa pouts, rubs the assaulted flesh to soothe it from the attack he deserves. For a second he considers lying, saying he _did_ try to message Iwaizumi but the messages wouldn’t go through or something. Lying would be easy, but, “I… I just couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t? What was stopping you?” 

“I don’t know! I just couldn’t do it. I tried to answer but—” Oikawa coughs to redirect himself from his near-lie, “Nothing I typed out worked.” 

“What do you mean it doesn’t _work,_ Oikawa?” 

“Don’t worry, don’t worry about it! Whatever message I thought about sending sounded stupid. And the longer it took, the harder it was to answer at all.” 

Iwaizumi pauses for a moment, considering the words carefully before acquisancing, “Alright. I get it.” With a strong grip, he suddenly yanks Oikawa into his arms, crushing his ribs like he’s trying to make up for lost time with strength, “Never pull that shit again, shittykawa.” 

“Iwa-chan! You can’t just call me whatever you want!” He wiggles free, only to be dragged back again and wrestled onto the dirt floor. Pinned, Oikawa has nowhere else to look but up at the tanned skin and rough unshaved scruff of Iwaizumi’s face. 

He can’t say he hasn’t missed it for all this time, even if he was the one to blame for missing them in the first place. As he opens his mouth to protest, his hands splayed to push against Iwaizumi’s shoulders, his lips are sealed away, hot against the cold of the forest air, the scruff of his chin rough against Oikawa’s cheeks. 

Brief, but it soothes the remaining ache in Oikawa’s chest. 

It’s easy, easier than it has any right to be to fall back into a rhythm they never had to begin with. Iwaizumi pulls back. Oikawa’s hand finds the back of his neck to crash their lips together again. Too hard, too rushed; Iwaizumi grunts and Oikawa can practically hear his eyebrows furrowing. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it’s there. 

They stand to journey deeper into the woods, and Iwaizumi clears his throat. 

“What do you want to do, exactly?” He pauses, eyes trailing a bird flittering from the tops of the trees to a new branch. 

Oikawa chews his bottom lip. 

He doesn’t want to go further. He _can’t._

The thought alone of seeing the burned remains of his home, the memory of his mother’s burning flesh churning his empty stomach. 

“Let’s go home.” 

Iwaizumi nods, leading them back through the familiar winding paths. Oikawa recognizes every little shrub and log, the crawl of the ants along the tree bark and the poisonous berry bushes as they near where Iwaizumi parked the car. He opens the door for Oikawa, and shuts him behind it, leaving him in the silence of his car alone. 

With a peek through the window, Oikawa sees a puff of cigarette smoke. He turns the mechanical crank of the window down, but Iwaizumi cuts him off. 

“I’ll bring the pack tonight to see what we can find,” Iwaizumi says softly. “I don’t know what we can do about it, but it’s worth a shot.” With a deep inhale, he flicks the butt of the cigarette into the gravel and crushes it with his heel.

It makes Oikawa feel a little better, in a way. Less alone, when Iwaizumi sits heavily into the driver’s seat, a waft of nicotine tingling the senses. 

They travel in silence, but Oikawa can breathe. The radio flickers static between channels as he clicks through the dial until Iwaizumi slaps his hand away with a scowl. 

“So,” Oikawa leans across the center console, eye twinkling in the dim pass of the streetlights as they grow closer to the cityscape. “Paws, huh? Pack? That wolf was you, wasn’t it, Iwa-chan~?” 

“What?” Iwaizumi chokes, frantically slapping the back of his hand at Oikawa’s face to get him away from the center console and out of his space. “No. Fuck, Oikawa. That wasn’t me.” 

“Not _you_ then,” Oikawa taps his lip with his finger as he thinks. “But someone you know? From your ‘pack’?” 

Iwaizumi offers him a hard side eye from the driver’s seat and brake checks, snorting as Oikawa tumbles towards the dash with a yelp. 

“Don’t change the subject! I won’t forget! Unless Iwa-chan has some sort of way to erase memories—” 

“It’s Mattsun.” 

“Oh.” 

“You met him in my parlor when I did the wolf on your hip awhile back. Curly hair, shitty little smirk, eyebrows thicker than his waist.”

Oikawa snorts, “Yeah, I remember.” 

He turns the information over in his mind with an audible hum.

They settle back into silence, and Oikawa taps through his phone notifications absentmindedly. He glances through the window when the car stops, staring at the bright neon lights of a bar instead of the empty windows of his apartment. 

Oikawa grills him with questions in the booth of the bar, snacking on greasy fries. No matter the cross of his arms or the roll of his eyes at question after question, Iwaizumi answers each inquiry with chicken in his teeth or a straw between his lips. 

“I want to see,” Oikawa crunches a near burned fry between his teeth. “Will I get to meet your pack?”

Iwaizumi gives him a wary look and crushes his cigarette into the ashtray on the table. “Sure. You should at least meet Semi.” 

“Oh is that like your second in command? What do they call that for wolves? Be—”

“He’s my mate.” 

“...Oh.” Oikawa tries to wave off his deflation with a lackadaisical gesture. His jaw drops to speak but Iwizumi cuts him off. 

“He knows about you,” Iwaizumi remarks casually, but his eyes search Oikawa’s reactions cautiously. “He knows about…” He gestures between the two of them, “This.” 

“And your mate doesn’t mind it?” The fries go uneaten on the table. “I thought wolves mate for life or something.” 

“He doesn’t,” Iwaizumi lights up a second cigarette, blows the smoke away from Oikawa’s face to catch the dim light of the bar. “Do you? And no, that’s just some stupid myth, Oikawa.” 

“Hum. Nah.” 

Tension bleeds from Iwaizumi’s shoulders, an anxiety Oikawa didn’t notice until it poured from Iwaizumi’s form like a broken dam. The double dose of nicotine probably should have hinted at it, but Oikawa was too focused on _wolves_. He finishes up the last of the food between them, and leads Iwaizumi weaving through groups to the clean air of the city. 

“When we leave here, are you gonna avoid me again?” 

“Nah, I think I missed Iwa-chan’s brash ways and I want to get another tattoo.” 

Iwaizumi looks like he wants to argue, but shakes his head with a sigh and a dry smile instead. 

“Alright, Tooru.” 

✧⊱ ━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━⊰✧

Iwaizumi digs through his phone contacts as the engine cools in the night air, collecting the pack to search. Some of the wolves that don’t answer are exactly the ones he expects not to answer. Kyoutani never answers on Thursday nights. He’s never specified why, but Iwaizumi doesn’t need to ask to know he’s with Yahaba. He dials a couple wolves from Semi’s previous pack, relieved when the only one that answers his unfamiliar number is Kawanishi. 

He could have used Semi’s phone, could have collected a couple more wolves that way, but the thought of running with Tendou Satori or Ushijima Wakatoshi kept his mouth shut. Everyone has their limits, and Iwaizumi doesn’t want to deal with the fight it would inevitably cause to have Matsukawa run with Tendou. 

A quick text to Daichi at the police station is enough to put Daichi on the search. It’s not the first time Iwaizumi has texted him odd information, asking to dig through old and new files alike to find an answer the wolves can’t see in the earth and trees. He doesn’t expect Daichi to find anything in the files, if Oikawa’s words hold water. His screen flickers with a confirmation that he’ll dig out the old file, and Iwaizumi clicks his phone off. They won’t need it. 

Just Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, Kawanishi and Semi. 

They shift two kilometers south of the opening to the forest, the stretch of taught muscle and gleam of lupin eyes peering through the trees as they run to the site. Iwaizumi catches his own scent from only hours before, maneuvers through the same trails he pulled Oikawa through in his human skin. 

Matsukawa snickers when he catches Oikawa’s scent. There’s no need to ask. Iwaizumi knows what he’s snickering about and a sharp nip at his flank would only make the teasing worse. He’s not in the mood. A half kilometer deep into the woods, Semi stops, digging at the forest floor with his paws. 

Iwaizumi recognizes the blood pricked needle he flicked away from Oikawa before. _It’s nothing,_ he reassures, nuzzling his nose into Semi’s flank in a grooming comfort. _Keep moving._

With a soft whine deep in Semi’s chest, they continue weaving through the trees.

As they run, the scent fades away. Oikawa didn’t let them go this far. Iwaizumi slows, sifting through the ash soaked earth with his nose to search for a trail. They’ve been here before, traveled through these woods time and time again. It’s familiar, but he never found something he didn’t know to look for. 

A crescent moon hides beneath the clouds above. Just as Iwaizumi couldn’t find the moon, the wolves couldn’t find any traces of… _anything._ All that’s left behind is the wet ash mixed into the soil, decayed logs from long demolished housing tucked deep into the forest, and the single bloody pine needle Oikawa left behind just hours ago. He didn’t expect to find anything. It’s been too long, and not even Mattsun’s excellent skills in tracking could sniff through decades of growth and ash for the remnants of something that might not exist in the first place. 

Iwaizumi gives off a sharp bark and a muted howl. He dreads going home with nothing, presenting Oikawa with nothing. The scent of distress and pain burned into Iwaizumi’s memory, the metallic tinge of blood as Oikawa pricked away at his skin as if it would bleed away his trauma. 

The wolves left without him, all but Semi. At the edge of the forest overlooking the cityscape in the horizon, they watched the hints of sunrise peek into the sky. Only when the earliest of the songbirds begin to sing did Semi nudge him back home with a persistent muzzle. 

_It’s time to rest,_ Semi urges. _It’s too far in the past to do anything about it now._

_Rest._


	5. Scar Tissue

First thing in the morning, Iwaizumi receives a call from Oikawa. The blaring ring of his phone tempts him to throw it across the room, drowsy with a head full of moist cotton from the wolf hunt into the ass crack of dawn, but he sees the name and slaps the button to accept with much more force than necessary. Oikawa is usually more of a text over call type of guy, so Iwaizumi figures it will be worthwhile to pick up, even if Semi weakly slaps his shoulder with a flaccid wrist about it. 

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi grunts into the phone, clear about his exhaustion from the start. “It’s…” He looks at the clock across the room with a blurry eyed squint. “It’s ten in the morning.” 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Oikawa is clearly pacing in the background of the call, his footsteps audible and a sad yelp of a dog when he steps on his tail. “Sorry, sorry, Milkbread! Iwa-chan, come over.” 

Iwaizumi ruminates on the thought. He had planned to see if there was any more digging he could do on his own before bringing any news to Oikawa, but he also knew it was no use. There was nothing to be found, and Iwaizumi didn’t want to break that Oikawa. He stares at the blank wall in silence for a moment and sighs. 

Semi’s drowsy yet sharp glare bores a hole into the side of his head so deep he’s sure light passes through to the other side. 

“Alright. Just… give me a bit. I’ll be there when I can.” 

He hangs up before Oikawa has a chance to argue or ask for anything more than Iwaizumi is ready to agree to. With a groan, he tosses the phone back onto the nightstand and curls back into the blankets, hugging Semi’s nude form to his chest and wrapping his leg around his hip. Iwaizumi really thinks about staying in bed for another hour. Maybe five more hours, or seven. He does the math. From the hour he arrived home to the sound of the alarm, he had slept three hours. His groggy brain provides that three hours of sleep is… 

_ Not a lot.  _

Iwaizumi tucks his face into the nape of Semi’s neck and breathes in his scent, soothing back into a relaxed lump of heat beneath the blankets until Semi drags him back to full consciousness. 

“He probably wants to know what we found,” Semi mumbles into the fabric of the pillowcase. 

“...Yeah.”

“You should go.” 

Iwaizumi tickles the baby hairs behind Semi’s ear with his nose and pulls him closer to his chest, “I should.” 

Semi huffs a laugh under his breath and resigns to his fate of becoming a body pillow, at least for a little while. 

It takes about two hours, but Iwaizumi drags himself from the comfort of the blankets and his mate to slip in and out of the shower and into whatever clothes he pulls from his dresser. Semi doesn’t get up with him, and Iwaizumi doesn’t hold it against him. If he hadn’t told Oikawa he would come, Iwaizumi wouldn’t have crawled out of bed either. It’s cold as shit in the morning. He wraps his jacket to hug closer to his body and yawns as he slips the key into the ignition. 

A miracle that he makes it to Oikawa’s flat in one piece, really. 

Oikawa is hovering outside the front door to his apartment when Iwaizumi drives up. With a sigh, he climbs the stairs and follows Oikawa inside without a word. 

The dog is really nice. Milkbread, as Oikawa named it. Iwaizumi takes his time greeting his new friend and musing that Matsukawa had been right about how cute the dog is. It feels like a lifetime ago, even if it’s only been months. 

He knows that he’s stalling. This is a conversation Iwaizumi doesn’t want to have. There’s a light in Oikawa’s eyes that he doesn’t want to extinguish.

“Okay,” Oikawa drags him away from Milkbread with slender fingers around his wrist and onto the sofa, though Milkbread happily trails along, nuzzling his snout into Iwaizumi’s hands. Dogs always like Iwaizumi. 

“Take a deep breath,” Iwaizumi says first, partly to himself and partly to Oikawa. Once he sees Oikawa relax a little, he continues, ripping off the bandage as swiftly as possible. “The wolves couldn’t find anything in the mountains. It’s just been too long and the trail has gone too cold, Oikawa. Maybe if we could have checked it out years ago, we would be able to help.” 

He considers mentioning his friend Daichi at the police station and the messages he received with less than useful information but decides against it. It wouldn’t help. He doesn’t want to twist the knife in any deeper than he already has. Iwaizumi knew from the start that they weren’t likely to find anything in the mountains, but seeing the charge and flux of emotions that swirl beyond Oikawa’s eyes hurts his chest. The spark of hope that had danced there before faded away in seconds.

Still, Oikawa doesn’t speak. 

“...It’s been a long time, Tooru.” He caresses his thumb along the back of Oikawa’s hand in hopes to soothe some of his anguish, but Oikawa tears his hand away. Iwaizumi frowns, “You should let it go.” 

Iwaizumi stands by what he says. 

“Get out,” Oikawa snaps, standing from the sofa and yanking Iwaizumi by the wrist. “Whoever — _ whatever— _ took from me deserves to rot! If you can’t see that, then get the fuck out, _ Iwaizumi.” _ He spits the syllables of Iwaizumi’s name like a curse. 

Sputtering half words of nonsense, Iwaizumi stumbles to his feet and Oikawa drags him across the flat and nearly throws him out onto the porch. The door slams shut behind him, leaving Iwaizumi stunned. On the other side of the door, he can hear Oikawa hit against the door and slide to the floor with a muffled shout and sob. 

Iwaizumi gathers up his scattered thoughts from the floor of the porch, and pounds down the stairs with a frustrated string of expletives. 

_ He stands by what he said.  _

He  _ knows _ he’s right. It’s too late, Oikawa needs to let go, he needs to move on. He just wishes he could make Oikawa see that for himself. 

What he can’t see is Oikawa’s regret at allowing hope to blossom. 

Iwaizumi arrives home and strips his clothing off as soon as he slips through the front door, tossing each discarded piece this way and that. He’ll pick them up later, probably. Or Semi will, accompanied by a quirked eyebrow and sharp eye and he’ll slap them into Iwaizumi’s face. It’s fine either way.

Semi stirs as he crawls back into the mess of blankets and sheets, reveling in the warm comfort of the soft sheets against his skin. His heart throbs in his chest and his throat sits tight and acidic, and he smothers the feeling in the scent of Semi’s fur, a soothing musk. Familiar. Stable. Semi doesn’t ask. It’s an unspoken agreement between them. He’ll wait until Iwaizumi is ready, just as he’s done for him time and time again. 

✧⊱ ━━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━━⊰✧

One month passes in a blur. Week after week is just like the last, and foreshadows the next. Iwaizumi keeps busy, just like he had the first time he and Oikawa…  _ fought, _ if it could be considered that. He doesn’t text Oikawa this time with the assumption that it would end the same way as it did before, just with the addition that Iwaizumi actually feels like he did something wrong this time. 

Iwaizumi stands by what he said. Kind of. Sort of. As time passed and weeks bled away, the certainty washed into the drain with the time. 

Whenever Oikawa is done being pissy about something Iwaizumi couldn’t control, he can contact Iwaizumi himself. No matter the number of times he repeats this mantra, this pathetic attempt at self assurance, the guilt digs in just a little bit deeper. 

The plasticine of the stool squeaks noisily under his weight, shifting with every move of his weight to keep his arm steady. The client doesn’t matter, the tattoo itself doesn’t matter, not to Iwaizumi. He’ll do good work regardless of who’s in his chair, or what he’s paid to do. 

But the TV in the corner flickers to life, distracting Iwaizumi from his thoughts and he catches Oikawa’s name from the announcer. Oikawa plays as masterfully as always; attentive, supportive, decisive, powerful. Iwaizumi keeps an ear on the television as he shades in calm even strokes. 

As the appointment nears its end and Iwaizumi can be left alone with his thoughts, he tosses his gloves in the trash and runs a hand through his hair. A bad idea probably, but he decides it’s time to pay Oikawa a visit. He considers tossing a text his way, but slips his jacket on his back in a slide of worn leather. 

A month is plenty of time. Iwaizumi doesn’t want to be strung along a second time. As he snatches his keys from the bowl on his desk, he closes up the shop with a wave of his hand to the employee manning the sex shop and slips out the back. Cigarette between his lips, he walks through the alleyway and ignores the call of sketchy characters in the dark. 

Oikawa isn’t home. The lights are dark and the knock of his fist goes unanswered. The only scent he catches and only sounds he hears are from Milkbread pawing at the door. If nothing else, Milkbread seems as happy and healthy as he had a month ago. It’s reassuring that whatever Oikawa might be going through, at least he still has mind enough to take care of his four legged companion. 

Crouching with his back against the wall beside the front door, Iwaizumi waits. He lights a cigarette and waits. Chews on the butt of the dead cigarette and waits. The sun sets behind the horizon, casting the sky in vibrant hues of pinks and oranges and violets, and Iwaizumi waits. 

He is typing up a message to Semi when a shadow casts over his figure and he finds Oikawa’s apprehensive look. 

Without a word, he lets Iwaizumi in, and he follows as they leash up Milkbread and take him for a walk through the park in silence. Iwaizumi feels like a lost dog who’s just come home from a joyride. It’s stupid. 

And wrong. 

“I caught the last half of your game,” Iwaizumi says to break the silence, to… start small. It wasn’t his plan. He wanted to rip the bandage off and get it over with, but the deep bags under Oikawa’s eyes speak for Oikawa. “You played as well as always, Oikawa.” 

“Of course I did.” 

Iwaizumi bites back the urge to snap at the short reply. 

“I’m happy to see Iwa-chan, though.” The smile is fake, pained. Iwaizumi wants to tear it off his face and throw it in the river to drown so he can see Oikawa’s emotions below the surface. 

He doesn’t. 

“I missed you,” he says instead, opting to disarm Oikawa’s faux niceties with his own sincerity. 

It’s the truth. Iwaizumi missed his company, just as he missed him the first time Oikawa disappeared into silence. It’s stupid. They haven’t spent much time together outside of the parlor anyways. He swallows down his frustration at becoming so attached to someone he sparsely sees and focuses on stepping over the cracks on the sidewalk. 

Oikawa’s mask drops, but Iwaizumi doesn’t see it, eyes trained on every passing shadow, every beam of light from passing bicyclists and joggers. 

Milkbread leads them through familiar paths. At every passing streetlight, Iwaizumi watches their shadows form and shift around them in an achromatic kaleidoscope. 

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breaks the silence quietly, and Iwaizumi snaps his attention to watch those lips form those words again.  _ I’m sorry. _

Regardless of Milkbread’s protests, Oikawa stops and pulls them aside to sit on a bench. Iwaizumi ignores the cold of the slats through the fabric of his clothing and turns to face Oikawa, affronted when Oikawa pushes his shoulder to make him face away. 

“Don’t look at me. I can’t say it when you look at me, god,” Oikawa pouts, his cheeks a funny shade of pink and Iwaizumi barks out a laugh. It eases the tension a little. 

“Fine, I won’t look at you,” Iwaizumi pets the dog with a scratch of his blunt fingernails, but all of his attention is glued to Oikawa’s fidgeting in his peripherals. “Go on. Say it, Oikawa.” 

Oikawa mutters something beneath his breath, just quiet enough Iwaizumi doesn’t catch it, even with his sharp hearing. 

“I don’t just forgive and forget shit,” Oikawa curls his legs to his chest on the bench and stares into the dark of the park around them. Anything was better than meeting Iwaizumi’s gaze. “They took something from me and I’ll never get it back… But I shouldn’t have snapped at Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi hums in agreement. “It’s hard to let go of things.” 

Oikawa nods and rests his chin on his knees. “Yep.” 

  
  


✧⊱ ━━━⋅~⭑♦⦕❈⦖♦⭑~⋅━━━⊰✧

Iwaizumi barely makes it through the door of the flat before the door is slammed shut behind him. Oikawa doesn’t bother to unclip Milkbread’s leash free, letting it fall to drag along the carpet with a muffled scrape. The sound is distracting, but pinned against the cold of the front door, Iwaizumi doesn’t spare it a second thought. 

He grunts as his back hits the door, a protest tight in the furrow of his brows and Iwaizumi bites Oikawa’s lip. It’s way too sudden, his senses enveloped in Oikawa’s scent, the touch of his hands on Iwaizumi’s chest, his thigh slipping between Iwaizumi’s to grind against his half hard cock. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pants between biting kisses, desperate and sharp. “Let me… for awhile.” His voice betrays him, rough around the edges for all of Oikawa’s attempts at composure, to hide his weaknesses. 

The tension bleeds from Iwaizumi’s shoulders, the protest in his form melting away to pull Oikawa closer. He can’t solve Oikawa’s problems, but he can do this. He can give comfort and distraction and maybe it won’t be enough but it’s  _ something _ — 

And Iwaizumi’s thoughts mute into a distant fog, letting Oikawa guide him from the door until his knees hit the back of the sofa and he tumbles over the side gracelessly. 

The back of his head hits the arm of the couch and it hurt but not enough for any more than an undignified grunt to note the soreness. When Oikawa bears down on him again, he welcomes the weight with a wrap of his arms around Oikawa’s hips, running his hands beneath the fabric to feel the warmth of his skin. 

Oikawa trembles. Iwaizumi doesn’t bring it up, doesn’t stop him to ask about the shudder in his spine, the shake of his voice and the wet press of a tear stricken face into the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck. He nuzzles into Oikawa’s hair, crushes him tight to his chest. He crumples like a paper airplane in Iwaizumi’s grasp, and wiggles slightly before squeezing his hands between Iwaizumi’s shoulders and the arms of the sofa. 

It’s… okay. Oikawa curls into Iwaizumi’s warmth and Iwaizumi listens to the steady tick of the clock on the far wall. There’s no words, not even a sob, just Oikawa’s shuddering breaths and the stretch of fabric as Iwaizumi runs a hand up and down his spine. When Oikawa shifts his weight and lays tentative kisses up his collar to behind his ear, Iwaizumi smooths his hands from Oikawa’s back to his hips and waits. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa’s voice breaks, and he clears it with a solitary sniffle. “Show me your teeth.” 

“What?” 

Oikawa meets his gaze for only a second before kissing Iwaizumi, biting his lips aggressively until Iwaizumi opens his mouth. He traces the outlines of Iwaizumi’s teeth with his tongue, mapping out the space like he’s looking for something he can’t find and Iwaizumi sighs into the touch, gripping Oikawa’s hips firmly to grind up against him. 

“I thought they would be sharper,” Oikawa mumbles, panting, and Iwaizumi pulls away to look at him directly. 

“You thought my teeth would be sharper.” It’s not a question. “Kiss me again.” 

Oikawa doesn’t hesitate to capture his lips again, startling with a gasp when lupine teeth pinch his lip hard enough to bleed and he licks away the tinge of red. Iwaizumi wishes he could be surprised, but he’s not. 

Claws tease at Oikawa’s skin, dipping beneath the waistband of his pants to grasp at the flesh of his ass and Oikawa pushes back against those hands, reaching to run his fingers through Iwaizumi’s hair and clench it between his fingers. Getting Oikawa out of his clothing was easy, but wiggling out of his own while Oikawa presses him into the sofa cushions proves to be a challenge. 

With a soft grunt and a quiet growl deep in Iwaizumi’s chest, and guides Oikawa to sit up, just enough for Iwaizumi to pull away his own layers. Oikawa watches with rapt attention, a smear of his own bloody lip moist at his bottom lip, and runs his hands along the fur at the hem of Iwaizumi’s jeans. 

“Fur.” 

Oikawa says it more to himself than anything else, eyes wide and enraptured, and twirls a lock of fur around his finger and tugs it lightly, as if testing its authenticity. Iwaizumi runs his hands up and down Oikawa’s thighs, admiring the grooves of muscle and pushing the tip of his claws into the meat of it. 

“Quit staring and come here.” 

“Iwa-chan is so grumpy,” Oikawa states, but he obeys, dipping to press their chests together and feel the slide of skin against skin. “I just want to see.” 

“You’ll have plenty of time to see later.”   
Oikawa hesitates at that statement, and breaks into a slow, bright smile. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth, another to his cheek, and up to his temple. 

Iwaizumi trails a hand to tease Oikawa’s nipple with the pad of his thumb, relishing in the way Oikawa shivers beneath his touch, grinding his ass back against Iwaizumi’s hips. With a shuffle, Oikawa paws away at the waistband of Iwaizumi’s jeans, freeing his half hard cock to palm it in long quick strokes. Iwaizumi presses his nose into the crook of Oikawa’s neck, breathing in the scent of Oikawa’s shampoo and soaps, his cologne. 

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi winces slightly, the pace too fast, the friction too dry. “Lemme—”

“No.” 

“No?”

In lieu of answering, Oikawa lifts his hips and with a swift motion and a wince, drops his weight onto Iwaizumi’s hips. 

_ “Fuck, _ Oikawa.” Iwaizumi digs his fingers into the meat of Oikawa’s ass, claws sharp to spread him open in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension. It’s too tight, too sudden, and Iwaizumi gasps when Oikawa balances his palms on Iwaizumi’s bare chest and begins to move. 

It’s slow at first, thankfully.

Iwaizumi opens his eyes, realizing he had closed them in his grimace and all he can see is Oikawa, shadows of movement, the way the curls of his hair catch the light from the streetlamp through the window. Every flex of Oikawa’s hips, every roll of movement Iwaizumi brings his hips up to match. 

More than once, he has to slow Oikawa down, holding his lips and guiding him until he can relax, until Iwaizumi feels like he can breathe and punctuates a kiss with a sharp thrust of his cock deep into Oikawa. Oikawa gasps, Iwaizumi’s hands unable to stay still, roaming from the muscles of his back to his slim waist and slender hips. He pulls Oikawa down with a rough grip on Oikawa’s neck and draws him into an open mouthed kiss, a mumble of  _ Tooru, _ and a nip of teeth along his jaw. 

“Iwa-” Oikawa pants, throwing his head back to bear his neck for Iwaizumi to lave with his tongue.  _ “Hajime.” _

Iwaizumi growls, a rumbling sound deep in his chest and drags his claws down Oikawa’s back, thrusting his hips to meet Oikawa’s pace in a slap of skin. A tear trails down Oikawa’s cheek and Iwaizumi is swift to kiss it away, the taste salty on his tongue. 

He can feel himself beginning to shift, eyesight losing its color and sharp hearing that zeros in on every  _ slick _ of movement, the heavy, desperate pleas for air in every inhale Oikawa makes; and Iwaizumi buries his nose into Oikawa’s hair, taking a deep breath of just  _ Oikawa Tooru _ . 

Clinging, Iwaizumi pulls him close, the skin of Oikawa’s chest smooth against his own. No matter the jostle and movement, Iwaizumi digs his claws into Oikawa’s back and thighs. Every snap of his hips slaps against Oikawa’s ass and thighs. 

Oikawa curls into himself,  _ into Iwaizumi’s embrace, _ as he comes. Desperate gasps for air tickle Iwaizumi’s ear and Iwaizumi digs his teeth into Oikawa’s neck to follow. 

With only the tick of the clock and the evening rhythm of Oikawa’s breath against his chest, Iwaizumi contemplates the time. It’s late. Probably nearing the hours of the early morning, if not already there. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa mumbles against the sweat-slick skin of Iwaizumi’s chest. “If this is going to work,” Iwaizumi doesn’t need an explanation of what; this relationship, this dynamic, whatever was binding them together no matter what fell between them. “I want to meet the rest of your pack.”

Iwaizumi hums a confirmation deep in his chest.  _ Sounds fair.  _ This was something they spoke about at the bar. 

“And I want to see your wolf form.” 

Another hum, a little more wary than the first. The hair on his neck prickles, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He eyes Oikawa cautiously. 

“And Iwa-chan,” Oikawa lifts his head from Iwaizumi’s chest to look into his eyes just close enough to make his eyes hurt from the strain. “Can you turn me into a werewolf too?” 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is done for the Poly Bang event!  
> I wanted to show a less common poly dynamic.  
> I pretty rarely see V dynamics in fiction >.>
> 
> This is the last of my Haikyuu!! works, unfortunately.  
> I'll be tying up some loose ends with finishing my last ongoing Haikyuu!! work [Courtship of the Owl](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/11286831)  
> but otherwise if you are into MXTX and 2HA, you can hang out with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/NicheTales)


End file.
